My Head in Their Hands
by BarbaraGER
Summary: Wrong time, wrong place – an unhappy coincidence lands Dean in a mental hospital. Memories he'd thought he had pushed back far enough are being stirred – who's able to keep him from drowning?
1. Chapter 1

**MY HEAD IN THEIR HANDS**

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_**Story type:** Multichapter_

_**Genre:** General_

_**Characters:** Dean, Sam_

_**Timeline:** Set in Season 4_

_**Summary:** Wrong time, wrong place – an unhappy coincidence lands Dean in a mental hospital. Memories he'd thought he had pushed back far enough are being stirred – who's able to keep him from drowning?_

_**Author's notes**: Okay, so this is my second multichapter story and I don't know how it's going to work out. Let me put it to you this way: I was on the verge of kicking this whole thing into the garbage can about 4587 times. Thanks to my brain ('Are you nuts! You're working almost a year on this, don't you dare throw it away!') and my Beta MeAzrael ('Aw, come on, where's the problem, let's work it out!') the 16 chapters are still on my computer and I'm still working on it._

_It was also hard for me to rate this thing properly. Most of the chapters are easy stuff, or 'the usual' stuff. But the story deals with Dean's time in hell and his memories about it, so I don't need to mention that those chapters might get nasty and disturbing. I will give a holler in my notes here at the beginning of every chapter that contains such stuff so you can decide whether to read on or skip those parts._

_One giant hug goes to my MeAzrael for reading and reading and reading all my ramblings – my sister in crime, mind, heart. Thank you so much for having my back!  
_

_Last but not least: I remind you that neither my Beta nor me are english natives – if you find some funny mistakes feel free to let me know – I'd really appreciate it! I also appreciate to hear your opinions – if you think my story sucks, let me know (maybe a few words why it sucks), if you have a few nice words for me: they're always welcome!  
_

**_And here's the disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW – no money's made with this work._**

_Let's start with chapter 1 – it's rather short but hopefully teasing – Enjoy!  
_

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Steely green eyes met blue ones. A mixture of blue and grey watching him with the same coldness, yet masked with empathy and understanding.

"Mister Rodgers, are we in a bad mood today?"

That 'we' again. What was it with the people in here all talking about 'we'?

"Could you tell me where that mood comes from?"

The green gaze remained steely, a set of raised eyebrows adding scorn to his unfazed expression. "That's a pretty dumb question for such an intelligent man, don't you think, doc?"

The doc smiled. A smile a toddler would receive while presenting a misshapen sandcastle to his grandfather. A smile he wanted to punch from the white coat's face. "Mister Rodgers, I know you're upset about being here..."

He snorted, his glare leaving the doctor's sickly sweet face and wandering over to the large window. He needed to keep his cool. When he had met the friendly doc for the first time yesterday his freak out had sent him right into solitary for the last 24 hours. A repetition of this certainly wouldn't help him to get out of here.

"...but it's for your own good. We want to help you, that's all."

He slid his eyes back to the doctor. "I already told you, I don't need your help. I'm totally wrong in here, okay? This is a simple misunderstanding."

"Well, good, let's clear the misunderstanding up then." The doc skimmed through some papers on his desk, "Let's talk about why you're here again..."

"We already tried, remember?"

"Before you've started to rearrange my office yesterday, I do remember, yes. I just hoped you might be a bit more talkative today. So. This is the police report." He grabbed the glasses lying before him on his desk without looking up from the report and put them up. "It says the police had gotten a call from a young woman on Monday night – very scared and very agitated – reporting a homicide."

"So?"

"So, the police found you at the crime scene, leaning over the corpse, hands and clothes bloody..."

"I was checking the guy's vitals..."

"The girl SAW you kill the man." The way the doc drew out the word 'saw' was downright annoying. "She watched you shoot him at point-blank range. You carried the gun that had been fired."

He watched the doctor with narrowed eyes. This was a dead end and he knew it. Whatever he did, whatever he said, it wouldn't get him out of this.

"Can you explain to me how you meant what you said to her? After you noticed the girl?"

"I don't think I said anything to her." Damnit, me and my big mouth...

"Oh yes, you did. I can read it to you: 'Don't worry, you're safe, it's over.' and 'Freakin' werwolves, nasty sons of bitches but this one can't get you anymore.'" The doctor lowered the report and looked at him expectantly, "So?"

Oh crap. Crap. Crap.

Okay, what now? He got it that gaping at the white coat in combination with opening and closing his mouth like a carp didn't help.

"Do you think you're a werwolf?"

WHAT?

"Come again?"

"What makes you think that you might be a werwolf? Or do you think other people are werwolves and you have to kill them at night? What about me, do you think I'm such a thing?"

Now was a good time to gape, he guessed. "This is..." Ridiculous. Bullshit. A giant lake of crap I accidently fell in and don't seem to be able to crawl out again. "...listen...I didn't...this isn't what it looks like, okay?" Lame.

"Okay, so what is it then? Explain it to me, that's why we're here. I'm all ears."

He said nothing. He got nothing. He was so screwed and he knew it. What could he possibly say? It was the truth that had brought him in here – so what kind of hoax could bring him out?

The doc placed the police report on his desk and folded his hands. "You are lucky to be here, Mr Rodgers. You are lucky that we try to help you. You could easily face death penalty or at least receive a life sentence, we're talking about Leavenworth here." He leaned forward, "This is a chance."

And wasn't it cute that you had a bigger chance to be a free man after you killed someone when you were insane?

"You know what I don't get, doc? I wonder why that girl isn't sitting here. I mean, werwolves? Come one, I didn't mention anything like that. She must have made that up, so who's the crazy one here?" Once again, lame.

The doctor shook his head. "I don't think the eye witness is crazy..."

"Try Facebook. I bet you find a lot of crazy stuff about her."

The doctor smiled a smile that not even got close to reach his eyes and let out a sigh. He pulled off his glasses and leaned back in his huge leather chair.

"What do I find about you in Facebook?"

He got an even more artificial smile in return plus the deepest growl available, "Not a single thing. But hey, you're the shrink, find out what you want to know on your own."

"Yes, I am the shrink. And that's why I want you to open up. Tell me what you think, Mister Rodgers. May I use your first name? Do you think this is funny, Dean?"

Oh, please, shoot me now.

"What do you think you can achieve with the show you put on?"

Hilarious. This isn't a show, Sunshine, this is totally me, totally pissed.

"Okay, I see." The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose and smiled again, this time a wry one. "I'm going to leave you alone for the next days, how does that sound? You can settle in properly..."

"No."

Stunned silence. The sickly smile frozen.

"Excuse me?"

"No. I won't. You're wasting your time here, doc. Get me a phone, get me a lawyer, then we'll see. I'm not staying in here."

"Oh, you're not staying in here? You do notice that I have the final say in this, right?" With that the doc pressed a button on his intercom, "Mister Rodgers is done, could someone get him into his cell, please?"

And boy, the doctor could glare, too.

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_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

Wow, all those gorgeous reviews – thank you, guys!

And because I'm too tired to write a drabble tonight I'm going to post the second chapter for this one instead. By the way, I'm going to update every week on Sunday, so hopefully there won't be huge gaps in between the chappies.

This chapter contains a few curses, so be warned :-) But most importantly: Enjoy!

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**Chapter 02**

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Damn, that went well.

When the heavy door snapped shut behind Dean, he could almost feel his bones vibrate due to the approaching wave of panic. He turned around and lunged at the now closed door, hammering against the small window, shouting. When the giant male nurse, Phillip, who had just brought him into his cell re-appeared in the glass square, Dean didn't mask his relieved smile.

"What?"

"I need to call someone."

"You're not allowed to call someone as long as you're in crisis stabilization."

"I'm in what? What do you mean, crisis stabilization? I didn't notice I'm crisis-ridden."

"You killed an adult man in cold blood with a gun in point-blank range. That classifies as violent. You totally freaked out yesterday. That classifies you as violent. Which puts you into crisis stabilization unit. End of story."

"Come on, I wasn't allowed to use the phone yesterday either, I have people out there who might want to know where I am!"

"Sorry pal, regulations. Now, settle down." With that, the Phillip marched off, leaving Dean look after him in utter disbelief.

He wanted to smash the window. He wanted to hurl something through the tiny room he was trapped in like some vicious animal. If only there would be something he could hurl.

Crisis stabilization. Check. Classified as violent. Check. So, nothing to hurl or use to hurt someone. Double check.

Dean settled for slamming his fist against the door in frustration, accompanied by an angry howl, before he turned around vigorously and slumped down onto the cot at the other side of his cell. He leaned back against the wall, pulled his knees up and dropped his head on top of them.

This wasn't happening.

He was a looney bin inmate. With no opportunity to call Sam, tell him where he was and what had happened. The kid was sure as hell digging over the whole town by now.

Dinner. That had been the reason for his nightly excursion. Sam and him had arrived in their motel with two growling stomaches after a common salt'n burn, nothing special, but exciting enough to earn Sam a tiny cut on his head, so Dean had volunteered to get something eatable from the town's diner.

Of course there was no way to innocently cross a park at midnight without encountering something supernatural.

Dean pulled his head up and ran a gentle hand over the white bandage on his wrist. This had been close.

That thing had gone right for the vital parts, hadn't bothered to knock him out or something similar classic. No, it had swung his unmanicured, way too long claws at Dean, to his luck missing most of the times, except for one. And lucky him, the cut on his right wrist wasn't too deep, not life-threatening anyway.

He should have left the 'crime scene' immediately. Shouldn't have taken care of the girl, should have given a rat's ass about her state after she had almost ended up as werwolf chow.

But no, the great Dean 'Are you okay?' Winchester had stayed by her side, had tried to calm her down despite her panic, her fear of him. He should have known.

And now, almost 48 hours later he was here. The police had only served as dispatch rider. After a short interrogation of the girl and an even shorter one of him, they had dropped him right onto the doormat of Lake Okeechobee Psychiatric Hospital.

And within the last 48 hours he had managed to piss off the nursing staff, his doc, had broken one orderly's nose and had gotten to know the solitary unit of the lovely facility.

He knew that had been a mistake. He knew that those actions had obstructed the easy way out. If there was an easy way out at all. The doc was right, he could have been brought right into a supermax for what he had done. Why he had landed in a nuthouse was kinda obscure to him.

Dean dropped his bandaged arm and let his head roll backwards against the wall. He ran both hands over his face. He had to shave. He didn't do two-day-old beards. Maybe he could ask for a razor. Maybe there was a little kiosk in this facility, some place where he could purchase one.

A laughter erupted from him. Yeah, fat chance of that. Crisis stabilization, remember?

Man, he was so deep in the mire, he didn't know how to get out of it. Even Cas wouldn't be a big help this time. Plus, the apocalypse was in the pipeline and as long as he was trapped in here, there was no way he could do anything about it.

Not to mention the things waiting for him in here. What was he about to do, to say? He could play dumb and they would do everything to get him talk. He could say the truth and the straitjacket would be the last clothing he'd ever wear.

Speaking of choosing between the devil and the deep blue sea.

A plan. He wouldn't say anything unless he had made a plan. Had played through every possible explanation he might have and the possible diagnosis the doctor might offer in return. This wouldn't get him out of here. But it wouldn't get him deeper in, too. Maybe. A shut mouth catches no flies.

Two powerful knocks almost sent Dean jerking from his cot. He looked up to see the face of Phillip looking through the window. Dean heard the telltale sound of the keycard sliding through the magnetic door opener, followed by the 'beep' and the switch of the tiny light at the device on the door lock from red to green.

Funny how the 21th century and it's technical specifications even found their way into mental hospitals. You could almost think you were in a hotel.

The cell door opened to reveal the familiar male nurse accompanied by some less enjoyable gimmicks: two orderlies, one of them with a bandage on his nose and a really dark facial expression, and a tray in the nurse's hand, complete with a plastic cup and a colorful assortment of pills.

Too many things that sure as hell bode ill.

Dean straightened and raised his eyebrows, his eyes darting from the tray to the injured orderly.

"How's the nose?" he asked nonchalantly, nodding at the obviously swollen olfactory organ.

"It's broken, asshole, that's how it is", the orderly growled and Dean could clearly tell from the white knuckles and the visible tension the guy radiated that there wasn't much keeping him return the favor to Dean's own nose.

"Stop it, Griffin", Phillip spoke up and entered the cell, putting the tray on the small table next to the cot. Dean didn't move, just glared suspiciously at the pills and the nurse.

"And this is what?" he asked with a mixture of disgust and disinterest.

"What does it look like, Dean?"

Always with the first names. Normally he had no problem with that, but in here it sounded as if was some kind of retard. If this was some kind of scam to soothe the people it wasn't working with him. At all.

"It looks like an army of pills to me. See, there's the point. Pills are for people with a diagnosis and as far as I know the good doctor hasn't made one for me yet. So I wonder what kind of pills I'm supposed to take."

"I can take care of that", orderly Griffin smirked and crossed his arms, "When I'm done with you there sure as hell will be a diagnosis, and you don't need a psychiatrist for it."

"That so? Gimme your best shot, potato nose."

"Guys!" Phillip almost shouted, holding a palm up to Griffin, "You, reserve yourself! I know you're pissed, but I tell you what, that…" he pointed at the bandaged nose, "…is job hazard. Suck it up, you hear me? And you…" he turned to Dean and pointed at the tray, "…stop fussing, take these, now. If you refuse to take them, we're going to use injections, and trust me, that's a really unpleasant procedure."

Dean's death glare almost split the nurse in two halves. So that was the policy in here. No matter what kind of damage to the brain there might be, just fill the patients up with whatever you could find in the gaps of your sofa. No wonder people never got out of asylums, there was no chance for them to heal when they had to take medications causing their synapses to melt away.

"Dean. NOW!"

He didn't flinch at his name being yelled. Just continued to stare at Phillip before he slowly slid his legs from the cot and leaned forward, picking the three different pills up with his right and grabbing the plastic cup with his left. For a split second he pondered over throwing the contents into the nurse's face, but decided against it.

Dean's eyes didn't leave Phillip's while he swallowed the drugs and downed the cup of cool water, his face an expressionless mask, but his glare heated and full of defiance. He slammed the cup back on the tray and leaned back against the wall again, pulling his legs up.

When Phillip stepped far too close for his comfort, Dean fought the urge to head-butt the man. Instead, he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out curtly.

"I've seen enough movies to know that it's pointless to hide that stuff somewhere inside the mouth, so relax, okay?" Dean grumbled when Phillip didn't back off immediately.

The nurse held his hands up as a peace offering before he reached for the tray.

"Am I going to have that lovely company every time I'm taking my pills?" Den asked, nodding at the two orderlies standing outside of his cell.

Phillip smiled. "Yes. You should be flattered, that kind of treatment isn't received by everyone."

"You mean everyone else's already assimilated enough to take the medication voluntarily." It was said in a nice, calm tone, underlined with a nice, polite smile. Both so wrong and put-on, it dripped with venom.

Phillip's smile froze before it slid from his face in slow motion. He turned fully to Dean again, and the Winchester saw something in the nurse's eyes he couldn't read.

"For the most people in here those pills are the only protection from themselves", Phillip said, his voice gentle and calm, but with a slightly upset quality to it. He held Dean's gaze for a moment longer before he walked out of the cell, stopping once more before he closed the door.

"The white pill is a soporific. As you didn't sleep last night those might help. The yellow one is a vitamin pill, the green ones are mineral supplements. So nothing you need to worry about. Your brain will be fine, nothing's going to melt." With that, he left Dean's cell and walked away.

For a second, Dean was speechless. Okay, so that guy loved his job. Inter-office memo: wanna piss Phillip off, just rant against the nuthouse policy.

He looked at the two orderlies. The smaller one reached out to close the door, but got stopped by Griffin.

"I got it. Move on to number 89, I'll catch up", he said.

The look on Griffin's face raised the alarm in Dean's instincts. Was it greed? Was it boastfulness? Thirst for revenge? The whole package? Right now he reminded Dean of an animal, an overgrown grizzly, ready to attack it's cornered prey.

Dean once again didn't move and watched the approaching man with narrowed eyes, registering every twitch the orderly made. And once again he found himself in a position where everything he did would lead into a deeper mess.

He knew what Griffin had in mind. He could beat him to it, could surprise the other man. He could start the fight and deal with the consequences.

Or he could wait, could ride it out, and would get some more pills for the next few days.

But one thing was for sure: he was going to pay the piper, no matter which way this went.

"Griffin..." the other orderly admonished, still standing outside the cell.

"We're good, Parker, really. Just give us a minute, will ya."

The orderly, Parker, hesitated for another second before he pushed the door closed with a grim look. Dean listened to the retreating steps before he pulled his attention back to the problem at hand.

"Is your job that boring that you need to play 'Smack the Inmates'?" he asked in a low tone.

Did he just slur?

"Oh, trust me, my job's very interesting. I get to meet the most thrilling people every day. Some of them even hand me welcome presents." Griffin pointed at his bandaged nose, before he stroke out lightning-fast, grabbing Dean's collar. The Winchester was yanked to his feet viciously, the motion and change in position causing the room to spin and him to grunt in surprise.

There were two Griffins standing in front of him. Three. No. Only one? Damn, could someone stop this freakin' carrousel?

Dean clawed at the huge orderly's wrist, startled at the amount of strength it took him and the tiny affect it had on his opponent. He movements were sluggish, almost uncontrollable, his eyelids suddenly weighted a ton each.

"Thisss is…reeeaal brave", Dean slurred, groaning in frustration over his inability to form some simple words, "…comme back tomorrrrrow when 'm not filllld up wis drrrugs."

Damn sleeping pills.

Griffing only laughed and pulled him closer to his face. "You know, since I'm already here…"

Dean felt Griffin's second huge hand close around the back of his neck. Before he could take advantage of the first one releasing his collar, he felt himself being pushed towards the cell wall. With full force.

When his face impacted with the cold concrete Griffin's dirty laughter was the last thing he heard.

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_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

_It's the first Advent Sunday today, I hope everyone's snuggling into a warm blanket in front of a burning candle?_  
_Once again, many many thanks for all the lovely reviews, you guys totally rock! And here's the chapter most of you are looking forward to: where the heck is Sam?_  
_Enjoy!_

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Chapter 03**

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Steely green eyes met blue ones. A mixture of blue and grey watching him with the same coldness, yet masked with empathy and understanding.

"Doctor Larsson, I really appreciate that you came the whole way from New York, but I'm afraid I can't commit the patient to your care…"

"Not 'the' patient, doctor Salinger, MY patient." He was surprised at how naturally the role of the bad-ass psychiatrist came to him. Maybe it was because of the objective he had set himself. He was capable of a lot more than this if someone would get in his way.

"Yes. Of course. But you must understand that the circumstances don't allow a relocation, not yet. Your patient is charged with a crime. Capital murder. Plus he's suffering from obsessive ideas, he's a danger to society. I already told him that he's a lucky kid he's waiting for a therapy in here and not for the lethal injection in a prison."

A shiver ran down his spine at those words. Man, this was one deep shit hole his brother has made himself comfortable in.

"My patient isn't capable of doing the thing he's accused. He might be quick-tempered, he might be defiant and insolent, but he wouldn't kill someone." And wasn't it a good thing that Dean was far away and hadn't heard this statement.

"Doctor Larsson, he's violence-prone. He almost took my office to pieces."

"He was in panic. From what I read in the report he was brought here in a straitjacket, as if he were Hannibal Lecter himself."

"He believes in werwolves."

"Yeah, well, others believe in Santa Clause or the tooth fairy, I don't see your conclusion."

"He's uncooperative."

"Well, of course he is, no one wants to be imprisoned in a mental institution without a judicial hearing!" He could continue this game all day long.

"How about deliberate self-harm?"

That shiver again. Had he just heard right?

"Excuse me. What?"

He watched Doctor Salinger pull the glasses from his nose and put it on his desk. He couldn't quite pinpoint the expression on the older man's face, but he knew he didn't like it.

"The nurse responsible for the crisis stabilization brought Dean breakfast this morning. He found him on the floor of his cell, unconscious, his face all messed up and bloody."

The invisible fist punching a hole through his stomach almost sent him jumping off the chair. He tried to keep his composure.

Stay professional. Stay alert. Something's wrong here.

"And you think he did that to himself?"

"I don't know what to think, Doctor Larsson. I haven't been able to make a reliable diagnosis on Dean, but from what I've got to know of him self-harm doesn't fit."

He swallowed. Salinger didn't know squat of Dean, psychiatrist or not. But the good old doc had made one good point: self-harm didn't fit. At all. Starting a fight after a hunt gone bad, yes. Being reckless in certain situations, sure. Suicidal and self-sacrificing when it came to his little brother, absolutely.

But slamming his own head against a wall? No way. No fucking way.

"Is it possible that there was another patient involved? A nurse, an orderly? Was there a fight?" Let's start with the living people strolling around here. We can get to the dead possibilities later.

The doctor smiled a smile he instantly disliked. Did he say something funny?

"No, there was no one involved and there was no fight. He got his medication from the nurse…"

"What kind of medication? When there's no diagnosis how can you administer medication?"

"Nothing strong, only vitamins, minerals and a soporific. Nothing to worry about, doctor Larsson."

Oh, nothing to worry about. Sure.

"Who gave it to him?"

"The nurse responsible for the crisis stabilization. He was accompanied by two orderlies due to Dean's…outburst. The patient was perfectly fine by then."

"Says who? Them?"

Doctor Salinger's expression seemed to darken a bit before he put his glasses back on and leaned deeper into his leather chair, the wry, almost pitiful smile back in place. "How long has Dean Rodgers been your patient, doctor Larsson?"

For a second he didn't know whether he should laugh at that question or pull the doc over his desk and show him where he could put his psycho crap. He decided to return the smile in similar manner.

"For as long as I can think, doctor Salinger." And if that wasn't 100 per cent true.

The doctor nodded and leaned forward again, lowering his tone dangerously. "That's been long enough. Now he's OUR patient, doctor Larsson. In here, I have the responsibility for Dean. I'm forced to share that responsibility with you because he's been your charge for a long time, and I'm willing to share said responsibility because I hope to get to the bottom of the problem with your help. But don't you dare to assume the right to say anything against my staff, don't you think you could march in here as if you knew it all. You're far too young to have seen everything."

A crunch of teeth signaled him that he was clenching his jaw so hard his skull might crumble any second. A sting in his eyes urged him to blink. He hadn't noticed that his face had also darkened during Salinger's tirade, that he was looking daggers at the older man.

Speaking of daring something. No one had the responsibility for Dean except him. No one decided what was good for his brother except him or Dean himself. Something was completely wrong here. And he would find out what.

"Fine", he growled, reaching for his documents that lay on the desk and stood, "I want to see my patient now, if this isn't too much to ask."

Doctor Salinger scrutinized him while he fumbled with the intercom on his desk. "Would somebody accompany doctor Larrson to the visitor area, please. He's going to meet patient 77." He didn't wait for a response and stood, reaching his hand out. "I'm going to contact and inform you over the further procedures and actions to be taken, my esteemed colleague."

Never ever had he shaken a hand with more reluctance. He clothed his face in cold smiles, relieved to escape the office and doctor Salinger. Relieved to finally see his brother. Eager to find out how he was.

Anxious to get him out.

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_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

_Back again. And deeply sad. I missed getting a ticket to the Asylum Convention 2011 in Germany. **sniff** But then I would have had bought them sometime in July already, without even knowing when and where it takes place and without knowing who'll be there. Now I have to suffer for my rigorous common sense. _

_Speaking of, let's see what Sam and Dean are doing...enjoy!_

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Chapter 04**

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This place gave him the creeps.

Walking after the orderly that had picked him up from doctor Salinger's office Sam let his eyes wander over the concrete walls, the huge cross-barred windows, the majestic skylight hanging over them, giving a good view to the dark grey clouds.

During world war I the facility had been a munitions factory, which explained the hospital atypical look and the ample hall they currently passed through. To Sam it was a mixture of a classy old hotel and a modern, stylish prison. But it wasn't the building that chased the shivers down his spine.

The sounds were.

There were their footfalls. Two pairs of shoes on the stone floor resounded from the high walls, the echoes so strong Sam wanted to look over his shoulder to see who was after them.

And there were the noises the inmates made. Those noises weren't loud or numerous, they were more like accents in the deafening silence in the hall.

But did it matter how loud a whimper was? How many single outcries you had to listen to?

Oh god, Dean. Please be okay. I'm going to get you out of here.

The two men reached a huge french door that was so out of place in this kind of facility yet so fitting to the building it was fascinating. They entered a large room with tables and chairs, bright light streaming in from the giant windows. In the far end of the room sat a couple, holding hands over the table, the man's face glistening with tears that ran down his face.

Sam was so moved by the sight he almost jumped when the orderly spoke up.

"You can take a seat, the patient will be brought in a few minutes." With that Sam watched him walk away to a completely different door, obviously one that lead to the inmates, disappearing behind it.

"His name's Dean", Sam mumbled angrily and let out a sigh. He looked over to the couple once more, witnessing the man having a full-on break down and his wife or girlfriend trying to soothe him with words and gestures.

He bit his bottom lip in frustration. Damnit, this was all kinds of wrong.

To notice that there was something rotten in the state of Denmark didn't take long for Sam. When Dean hadn't returned from the diner and Sam had been unable to reach his brother's phone, he had known.

To find him hadn't taken much longer.

When the first police cars had rushed by, with sirens wailing and blue lights flashing, Sam hadn't taken note of it at first. But with Dean being overdue and the Winchester luck always right where it was needed it had been a matter of seconds before his worry had turned into fear.

He hadn't seen Dean at the crime scene, but a few carefully selected questions to gapers and a police officer later he had his answers.

And was torn between cursing and panicking since then.

His head jerked up when he heard the heavy door the orderly had gone through earlier open with a hiss. The sight that greeted him was both delightful and despairing.

Even from a distance Sam could see his brother was pale and tired. The left side of his face was one colorful bruise, two tiny white spots that looked like medical strips shone out from above his left eyebrow. He wore the typical outfit, light blue pants, a white t-shirt and white sneakers – suicide safe, lacking the shoestrings.

Dean hadn't seen him yet. The second he did however, was absolutely apparent.

His expression changed immediately, as did his whole demeanor. His face lit up, in surprise, in joy, in relief. He straightened visibly and the slow shuffling turned into purposeful strides.

The closer Dean came, the more Sam felt himself cringe at the vicious bruises and the pallor. God, his brother looked terrible. And he had only arrived in here two days ago. Sam didn't want to know how Dean would look next week.

No. Next week Dean would be out of here. He would make sure of it.

Sam stood, his own face lighting up, his lips forming a genuine smile. When Dean came to a halt at the other side of the table he looked so vulnerable Sam wanted to drag him out.

"Sit down", the orderly demanded and patted Dean's shoulder, "You got 30 minutes." He then stepped back, leaving the Winchesters some privacy without being too far away so he could intervene if needed.

Sam pointed at the chair next to his sibling, "You heard the man." Dean snorted, still eyeing Sam in happy disbelief before the brothers sat down in unison, both leaning forward he moment their butts touched the chairs.

"How did you do that?" Dean asked in a low tone, his smile managing to mask the pained expression he had earlier.

"Do what?"

"They told me my psychiatrist came the whole way down from New York and wanted to see me. I had to bite my tongue to avoid asking who they meant."

"Well, you know I'm good."

"You're crazy, that's what you are."

"Says the inmate to his psychiatrist."

"Shut up. They're going to lock you up right next to me when they find out what you're pulling here." The words were serious, but the way Dean said them wasn't. There was honest delight, such sheer relief in Dean's far too glassy eyes, Sam knew exactly how he meant it. "Man, it's good to see you."

"Likewise." Sam watched Dean's face a second longer, searching for anything that told him something about his brother's frame of mind. He nodded at Dean's bruised face. "What happened?"

The muscle in Dean's jaw jumped and his face darkened. "Griffin happened. An orderly I had some difficulties with. I accidently broke his nose so he decided to scrub the cell wall with my face."

Sam nodded, a surge of anger rushing through him. "Yes, I thought so," he mumbled, "I take it you told them but they refused to believe you?"

This triggered another snort from the older Winchester, "Damn right. They think I did this to myself. As if I'd slam my own head against a wall, come on, really? Who does that?"

The brothers lapsed into silence, both becoming absorbed in thoughts before Sam cleared his throat.

"So, a werwolf, huh?" he asked, hoping the slight tremor in his voice went unnoticed by his brother. Fascinating how this special issue was still able to arouse a pain in his chest, still managed to stir up emotions that seemed to be dormant too close under the surface. Even after almost two years.

"Yep, lucky me. He almost got her Sam, it was so close."

"So, you had to kill him right in front of her eyes plus you had to ramble a bit about him being a werwolf and all that stuff?"

"Damnit Sam, I..." Dean hissed but turned it down a notch instantly, suddenly remembering that they weren't alone, "A lecture isn't helping right now, okay? How many people had to learn the hard way that there are bad bad things out there in the dark, thanks to us, and how many of them have put the cops or the lovely staff from the lunatic asylum onto us? How many, Sam? It's not my fault that it's me coming across screaming meemie in the middle of the night."

"Calm down, I get it." Sam let out a tired sigh before he continued, "I met your doc…"

"Salinger? Yeah, funny guy. But as my real psychiatrist is here now I can happily ignore him, right?"

Sam bit his bottom lip. "Dean, listen. They took the bait, I'm doctor Samuel Larsson, I'm your shrink from New York and I know practically everything about you. But as long as you're in here I only play minor walk-ons. Salinger's in charge, he's the boss and I have the feeling he's totally dotty about you."

"Meaning?"

"He's set on getting to know you better. I guess he's eager to crack such a tough nut like you."

"But Sam, I won't stay in here. I don't want to talk to that guy, I don't want to talk to any shrink at all. Whatever I say, they're going to twist my words to their advantage, whatever I'm gonna do, they're going to find it weird, I don't stand a single chance."

Sam held up a placating hand, trying to calm his agitated sibling down, "I know that, Dean, I know. You're not alone in this, and as long as I have a saying in this nothing's going to happen. But we have to be careful not to crush our chances, okay?" There were new emotions flaring up in Dean's eyes Sam didn't want to see there. It looked suspiciously like panic and desperation. He watched Dean averting his gaze, running a hand over his face. It was only then when Sam noticed the bandaged wrist.

"What's this?"

Dean looked at the bandage and shrugged, "Talons. My lupine friend was kinda specific about how to kill me."

"Is it deep? How heavy did it bleed?" Sam wanted to grab Dean's wrist and check for himself, but he knew his brother wouldn't let him.

"Let it go, Sam, it's fine." Dean pulled both hands close as if he had read Sam's mind, "Speaking of, how's the girl doing? She okay?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Right now you are my priority."

Sam watched Dean's expression turn into one of those 'Attention, ambiguous remark on the way' type of expressions, but whatever was to come got choked off by the orderly's deep timbre.

"Two minutes, gentlemen!"

And gone was the nascent lightness, replaced again by anxiety and weariness.

"So", Dean cleared his throat, "I really have to stay here, huh?"

It almost tore Sam apart. "Yeah. I'm sorry. But I'm going to find a way. I've already gained foothold, now everything I have to do is enter." Dean didn't look at him, only fidgeted with his fingers. Sam ducked his head to catch his brother's eyes. "Dean. Hold on, okay? I'm doing what I can. Just…be nice, eat your vegetables and avoid trouble, alright? I'm getting you out, I promise. Jerk."

Dean looked up and at the raw emotions in the big green eyes another wave of sorrow hit Sam full force. He always wished his brother would let his walls down once in a while. Would let him know how he felt. However, if Dean did, Sam wanted to build them up again, as fast as possible, because he couldn't bear the emotional shoals he found behind the ruins.

"Yeah, okay." It was a whisper. It was a testimony to Dean's repulsion against the whole situation, against being here. But while the brothers looked at each other Sam could see the ruins re-erect, could watch how the walls were rebuild again and Dean's composure returned.

"Time's up. Doctor Larsson, do you know the way out alone?" Sam hadn't noticed the orderly step up behind Dean, and from his brother's reaction Dean hadn't, too. He cleared his throat and leaned back.

"Yeah, thanks, I'm good."

The orderly nodded and signaled Dean with another pat on his shoulder to get up. At Dean's annoyed eye roll Sam's mouth twitched and with a mixture of amusement and sadness he watched Dean's slow rise from the hard plastic chair.

The mouthed 'Bitch!' he received as a farewell before Dean was brought away, back into his cell, surrounded by real lunatics, mass murderers and crooked orderlies gave him a tiny ray of hope.

When the door closed behind him, the retreating footsteps of the orderly launching the next hours in complete loneliness, despair and panic once again threatened to overwhelm him.

Dean slumped down on his cot, bent forward and took his head in his hands, hissing when the palm of his hand touched the swollen side of his face.

The fact that Sam was there and had taken some kind of control over the situation didn't manage to comfort him. It was not because he didn't trust Sam with this, no. Dean knew that Sam would left no stone unturned to get him out.

Question was if Sam would be able to do so. There was only so much one single person could make out against a mental facility.

Dean prodded gently at the cut above his eyebrow, cringing when a jolt of pain ran through him. Damn, he hurt. His whole head hurt. He wished he could just unscrew the damn thing and throw it into the darkest corner.

Approaching steps grabbed his attention and he tried to see the window without lifting his head. One part of him hoped the steps would pass his cell, he wasn't in the mood for another argument with Griffin. The other part yearned for some company, for some diversion from the whole staring and thinking thing. That was how those hospitals worked. You get all the time in the world to think about everything crossing your mind, and you are either cured afterwards or your own thoughts let you freak out at some point.

It was Phillip's face that appeared in the window and Dean didn't bother to hide his annoyance. He dropped his head down again, this time more mindful of his injuries, and listened to the slide – beep – click of the lock while he stared at the floor.

"Bad day?" Phillip asked, his shoes appearing in Dean's limited line of sight.

"You have no idea."

"How's the head?"

"Peachy."

The sound of the tray being put on the table was answered by a groan from Dean. Phillip stayed unfazed.

"Saw your psychiatrist today. He seems to be a nice guy. Is he good in his job?"

"Yes."

"And he's young. Interesting."

At that Dean looked up and raised his eyebrows at Phillip, wincing when the motion pulled at the cut. "You want his number?"

Phillip laughed a hearty laugh that actually sounded really good in the dark cell. It brought some warmth inside.

"Christ, no, I'm good." He held up his left and waggled his ring finger, where a silver wedding band flashed, "Don't think that my wife would appreciate someone beside her. No, what I meant is that young psychiatrists are interesting because they have other opinions and therefore different methods then the old school doctors, you know. They learn other things."

Dean knew his expression was one giant question mark. Was Phillip discussing the advantages of younger people in the nuthouse business with him? Really?

Noticing his mistake, Phillip waved him off, "Never mind. I brought your medication."

The Winchester slid his eyes to the tray and counted the pills. Then he looked past the nurse at the door.

"I have two questions, Phil", he began, "question number one, where are the watchdogs?"

Phillip threw a look over his shoulder as if to see for himself if there was someone or not before he replied, "I thought the watchdogs weren't necessary tonight."

"Very courageous."

"And number two?"

"Question number two, there are some new pills in town. I wonder what they are?"

Phillip smiled and crouched down beside the table. He waved a circle with his outstretched finger around colorful arsenal beside the plastic cup. "These are the ones you already know. And those..." he made the circle over the new pills, "...are painkillers and something doctor Salinger prescribed."

And if that didn't let the alarm bells ring.

"What kind of something?"

"Something to calm you down." It was marvelous how quiet and cool Phillip stayed at Dean's persistence. Maybe he had a copious supply of those calm-down-drugs under his pillow?

"I'm totally calm. I don't need them." Dean leaned back against the wall, pulling his legs up. He noticed that he had the exact same position as yesterday evening. There weren't many positions possible anyway.

"You're totally calm? Have you passed a mirror lately?"

At that Dean's head shot up and he ignored the pain flaring up at the sudden movement. Okay, he might need a few of those relaxing meds if Phillip wouldn't shut his mouth.

"Listen", he growled angrily, "I didn't do this to myself, are we clear? I told you, it was Griffin training for the olympic games, ask him who needs to calm down. And now take your quack remedy and leave me alone."

Phillip just continued to watch him. "Okay then, no pills tonight? You sure?"

"I am. Back off."

The nurse nodded and stood with a tired sigh, but didn't leave. Dean threw the darkest glare he could muster up at him. "Anything else?"

Phillip nodded and answered almost sadly, "Yes. Don't struggle too much. It's for your own good."

What happened next was a blur. Suddenly three orderlies stormed the cell, rushing at Dean who couldn't react as fast as he should have. Two giant men grabbed his arms while the third pushed his legs down, successfully keeping Dean from kicking out.

Of course he struggled. He tried to flail, to kick out, to buck, to push the heavy men off him in utter desperation and fury. He grunted and cursed, he screamed and protested but to no avail. His eyes filled up with tears of pain and anger, he felt something warm run down the side of his face as one of the orderlies took his head in a stranglehold, opening the cut above his eyebrow in the process.

From the corner of his eye he saw Phillip approach him, a syringe ready.

Once more he renewed his efforts to get away, to escape, but only succeeded in cutting off his air supply when the meaty forearm of the orderly keeping him in the headlock tightened.

He felt a sting at the side of his throat, near the carotid, followed by a burning sensation that almost caused him to pass out from pain. He heard himself scream, a hoarse, tormented scream, threatening to let his head explode.

The fight left his body. So did his strength. He yelled an armada of swear words at the people around him, but all he heard were moans and grunts. The warmth surrounding him vanished and his brain registered the orderly's withdrawal.

No. Stay. Please. I'm freezing. Stay.

A face in his line of sight. A smiling one. A disappointed smile. A voice.

"Rest."

And suddenly he was alone with the sounds of chains rattling in the distance.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

_Wow. I'm feeling so good right now. One giant bear hug and the biggest 'Dresdner Stollen' to everyone reading and enjoying this one! I didn't think this story would be that appreciated. Makes me even more curious to know what you think about the upcoming chapters._

_And here's the first warning I promised – there are some nasty memories in this chapter; not too gory, but to those of you with a sensitive stomach: beware._

_Enjoy, folks!_

**

* * *

Chapter 05**

* * *

First thing Sam realized when he opened his eyes, that he had made two big mistakes.

Number one, he had gone to bed too late. Number two, he hadn't gone to bed at all. While he blinked against the sunlight streaming through the gaps of the curtain, he felt the first protests of his body due to the awkward sleeping position.

With a groan, he sat up, his bones, his muscles, his skin, everything that was part of him screaming, scolding him for falling asleep on the chair in the first place and spending the whole night on it.

Sam stretched himself, rubbing his cheek where he could feel the imprint of the keypad, and looked around the room. When his gaze fell on Dean's untouched bed, the realization of their current problem hit him full force.

Right. One of those problem that weren't so easy to solve.

His eyes wandered over the table he sat at. The laptop had gone into hibernation, unimpressed by Sam's head lying on the keypad the last hours. Beside it a pile of books about psychology threatened to fall over and bury the sheets of papers scattered all over the table. On the second chair sat an empty salad box, it's former contents being the only food Sam had managed to get down last evening.

He had spent the night with learning and research, although he knew he should have gone to bed early. Having another sit in with doctor Salinger after pulling an all-nighter plus looking like it, too, wasn't the smartest thing. Sam had practically studied psychology in four hours and had done research on Lake Okeechobee Psychiatric Hospital and doctor Salinger himself.

What Sam had found out about the facility was nothing new, the policy and therapy resembled pretty much the methods of other mental hospitals. Lake Okeechobee was one of the few hospitals with an emergency psychiatry. Inmates with the symptoms and conditions of attempted suicide, substance dependence depression, presence of delusions, violence or panic attacks were committed in Okeechobee's crisis stabilization unit, were it was the job of the mental health professionals to identify and treat these symptoms and conditions.

Of course there was nothing in the world wide web elaborating these treatments.

Doctor Stuart Salinger was an expert on the subject of emergency psychiatry, had managed to cure many people. But then, those people might have had a real mental problem. How his treatments would work on people of unimpaired mental faculties was another question.

Yes, Dean had his kinks. And every shrink in the whole wide world would rub his hands if he'd knew Dean as good as Sam did. But then, every person in said world needed a psychiatrist. All people had their oddities.

Sam pulled the biggest book on the table closer with a tired sigh and skimmed through the pages. He had no clue how to approach this. The first try had been a bust – strolling in, taking Dean, thank you for your cooperation. His next try would need some more time, and there was the catch. He just didn't have the time.

He had seen Dean. His brother was a mess already. Dean was a tough guy, but even he could only take so much. And after 365 days with his head wedged under the guillotine, waiting for the blade to drop, after a violent death caused by fangs and claws of greedy hellhounds and four months in the pit Dean really needed a break.

Sam pinched his nose and cursed. There it was again. The probably darkest chapter in their fucked up lives. The giant burden Dean had to carry on his own, with Sam tiptoeing behind, watching his brother like a hawk to find a part of that burden he could help to carry. It was heavy enough for both of them together, there was no need for a third person to poke and prod at the fragile incubus.

But it was exactly what Salinger would do. It was exactly what Sam feared and dreaded. The second he had found out were Dean had been brought, it were those barred memories in his brother's mind that had made him nervous instantly. Of course Dean would keep them barred, locked up in the deepest corner, not only because it was indeed insane to talk about it, especially with those doctors, but rather because it was torture for him to even remember one fucking second.

Question was, if Dean would really be the person deciding this.

Sam knew how those facilities worked. They hadn't believed him when Dean had told them that an orderly was responsible for his rainbow-esque features, not him. His brother had been right, they would twist his words. And sooner or later, with Dean staying as mute as a fish, simply not cooperating, they would change tunes.

Fuck.

Never ever Sam would have thought that he'd prefer to visit Dean in a simple jail.

Reaching the page he had marked last night Sam leaned back, taking the book with him on his lap. There was still a lot to learn until he'd meet Salinger again. He would need to play along, be the long-term psychiatrist of patient 77 and wait for the best chance to haul Dean out. Before the good doc would take drastic measures. Before they'd begin to dig over Dean's mind and soul.

Before they'd destroy his brother forever.

* * *

A blood-curdling scream ripped him from his slumber.

Dean bolted upright with a harsh intake of breath, scanning his surroundings, hunter mode switched on immediately.

Geez, which poor wretch had fallen into a meat grinder to let out a scream like that?

Not that he was sorry about the interruption, he hadn't slept well anyway. In fact, he couldn't remember a time he had slept shittier than last night. Expect maybe for the first nights he had spent back up top side. But then, he had rummaged through his duffel, had pulled out a bottle of something predestinated to blow his lights out and shoooo – back to sleep. No memories. No pain. No dreams.

But now there was no duffle and no bottle and nothing predestinated to do anything at all. So there had been memories and damn truckloads of pain. And dreams. Only that he couldn't remember what they had been about.

Dean lay back on his cot, gritty eyes blinking frantically at the ceiling, a confused brain trying to arrange the parameters it was assaulted with. He felt his heart pound in his chest, as if he had just ran a freakin' marathon. He was sure his body was littered with goosebumps and the short, forceful gasps that were his breathing didn't help at all.

Sammy. Sam?

No.

Cell. Nuthouse. Sam wasn't here. It hadn't been his little brother screaming. Sam was far away in his cozy motel bed, hopefully snoring, hopefully oblivious to their mess. His mess.

Where the fuck had that scream come from?

He heard footsteps, someone was running outside. Funny, how could someone in here be in a hurry? Not that insanity could escape through the gaps.

When the steps came closer and stopped right in front of his cell door with a dull bang that signaled that someone had just crashed right into it, Dean jerked his head to the side, flinching when he saw Phillip's face in the window, a bewildered expression plastered to it.

Slide. Beep. Click. What the hell do you want?

The giant male nurse tumbled in and from the agitation the man radiated Dean almost expected him to drop down on his knees and slide the whole way from the door to his cot. Instead, Phillip came to a halt in the middle of the room, keeping a cautious distance.

"Dean? What's going on?"

He sat up, slowly, no abrupt moves, please, and pressed the palms of his hands on his eyes, waiting for the stars to fade. "Why do you ask me?" he rasped and cringed at the sandpaper-like sound that used to be his voice, "Ask the brayer."

"That's what I'm doing."

At that, Dean pulled his head back, his hands still in eye-rubbing position, and frowned at the big guy. "What do you mean?"

Phillip's shoulders sagged the slightest bit and he raised his eyebrows. "You've been the one screaming, Dean", he answered in a soft tone.

He knew he goggled. He knew that the blank, expressionless stare he must be throwing at Phillip right now could only be described as goggling. No freakin' way. How could he wake up from a scream and not noticing it had been him screaming? He was losing his mind. Oh God, he was already losing his freakin' mind.

"Did you dream? What was it about, can you tell me?" The soft line approach again. And the next second an army of orderlies would jump him out of nowhere so Phil could ram another syringe into his throat.

Dean blinked repeatedly when his eyes protested the absence of tear fluid, and dropped his gaze. He had dreamed. But he couldn't remember. Did he dream?

There was only one thing he could have dreamed about that would make him scream like this. And it was absolutely nothing he would mention anywhere near this facility, let alone to his nurse.

He startled when an oversized hand gently touched his upper arm and Dean looked into Phillip's blue eyes which were on the same level as his due to the other man's crouch. "Dean? Do you remember anything?"

And wasn't that one hilarious question. Sure, Phil, what do you wanna know? How it sounds when skin tears apart? The difference between ripping it from flesh and tearing it in two, as if it were some kind of rag? Or how it feels when your flesh sizzles and hisses in unbearable heat? Let's talk about the feeling when your bones jump out of their sockets because they just give up under the constant pull of burning hot chains.

Chains. Had he heard chains?

Dean cleared his throat, "No", he replied, wincing when it came out as a whispered croak and cleared his throat once more, "I don't remember. Maybe I dreamt about a drastic rise in gas prices?" He smirked, but there was no humor in it. He tried to lighten up the mood, but wasn't sure for whom.

Phillip looked at him, scrutinized him, as if he would find something in Dean's eyes, before he nodded. "Okay then. Do you need anything?"

"How about breakfast?" Oh yes. Something had to find it's way into his stomach and he'd feel better immediately.

"Speaking of..." Phillip answered and stood, a smile growing on his face, "Follow me into the dining hall."

Again Dean goggled at Phillip. "What, no food on a tray today? I'm captured in here on my own for three days and now all of a sudden I'm allowed to socialize? What changed?"

"Nothing changed, Dean, it's our policy. New entrants must stay in solitary for the first three days so they can settle properly, find their bearings."

"So what, I found my bearings?"

"Well, you haven't broken any more noses, right?"

Now that was cute. "How about mine? As you're all so sure I slammed my own face against the wall two nights ago how come that you think I found my bearings?"

"You have to differentiate the reason why you're here and the reason why you break an orderly's nose." Phillip looked at Dean with a kind of curiosity and the Winchester couldn't help but start to like the guy. The way he talked and moved he could easily pass as Yoda. Well, disregarding the height and physique.

"I don't know if I understand that freakin' policy of yours", Dean stated and rose from his cot ever so slowly, biting back a grunt when the room tilted slightly, "But I'm starving. Let's go."

Phillip nodded and stepped aside, motioning him to lead the way. When Dean walked through his cell door he noticed the two orderlies waiting outside, watching his every move with attentive eyes.

While they shuffled down the huge long hallway Dean tried to get his head clear, tried to push the nasty dream from his conscience, to remove the spider web of anxiety and dread that lingered on his mind since he had woken up. Funny, how you could be haunted by a dream you couldn't even remember. Or maybe not funny. Not at all.

Dean let his gaze wander over the other cell doors, all closed, their windows staring back at him like black rectangle eyes. He felt a shudder crawl up his spine and he forced his attention away from them, staring ahead at the huge double door they were approaching.

When Phillip spoke up right next to him, he bit down a gasp.

"Breakfast's at 9 o'clock, lunch at 1, afternoon snack at 4, dinner at 7", he explained, seemingly oblivious to Dean's tension. Thank God for that. It was totally unnecessary for Phil or someone else to poke around up there and ask stupid questions.

"You're going to be picked up from your cell", he went on, "When you've finished eating, you can decide what to do next, go outside, spend some time in our recreation room if you want to, unless you have a therapy session or an appointment with the doctors."

"Recreation room?" Okay, his voice was back. But honestly, recreation room?

"Yeah. There's a TV in there, board games, and every day there's the opportunity to do some handcrafts, like silk painting, embroidery or working with soapstone." And didn't Phil sound just like an overexcited kindergarden teacher?

"Uh-huh", Dean replied, his expression without a doubt as blank as an empty sheet of paper, and Phillip let out a hearty laugh.

"I know, I know, those kind of things aren't what you'd normally do..."

"And that's where you're perfectly right, Phil."

"...but maybe you could try? You wouldn't believe how calming such a hobby is."

Dean snorted, "Oh, I don't doubt it, really, but you know what calms me down?" Driving my beautiful car, having a drink with my sasquatch brother, breaking some demon's neck... "A piece of pie. No, screw that, a whole pie. Do they have that in there?" He jerked his chin at the double doors they had just reached and looked expectantly at Phillip.

"I see what I can do, okay?" Phillip laughed and unlocked the doors, this time taking the lead.

The dining room was huge, just as everything seemed to be in this facility. The same high ceiling, the same giant windows, the same cream colored walls. At countless big tables sat countless surprisingly quiet people in blue pants and white shirts, wolfing down whatever they had on their plates. The clinking and clanking accentuated by soft murmurs and mumbles was the perfect soundtrack to the scene.

"Okay Dean", Phillip said, pointing at some kind of buffet at the other side of the room, "You can grab something to eat and drink from there. Then sit down somewhere over there." He waved his hand over to an area where the tables were mostly vacant except for two other patients.

"What, there's a VIP area in here? Fascinating..." Dean chuckled.

"You could say that. It's the area for inmates inhabiting the CS unit." Phillip's expression changed from cheerful to sympathetic, "As you're not allowed to leave your cells on your own and you have to be controlled the whole time you're out it's easier for us to..."

"...keep us together like a herd of cattle, I see", Dean finished for him, a surge of anger and betrayal boiling up in him. He had almost forgotten, he was one of the bad guys. CS unit. Babysitter included.

"Dean..."

"Drop it, Phil", he spat, turned and marched over to the buffet. Somehow he expected to get grabbed by someone, an orderly advising him to mind his tone or something similar, but nothing happened.

For a tiny moment he wished to be grabbed from behind and be pulled away from the sight that greeted him. A feeling of disgust crept up inside of him at the sight of what they called breakfast in here.

The buns, piled up in a big basket, were surely the same that were used for the baseball sessions during lunch break – there was no need to touch or squeeze them to find out that they were hard and dry. And when the baseball session was over it was no problem to do some frisbee training, the slices of bread were the perfect pieces of sports equipment. In between burnt sausages, greasy pancakes and shapeless waffles resided a huge bowl of gruel. Pale, squishy looking pasta and even paler, even more squishy looking vegetables were presented in unappetizing steel dishes.

Dean hoped to choose the lesser evil by taking something that looked suspiciously like salad, brown edges included, and had to laugh at his choice. Man, if Sammy could see him right now, his little brother would run into doc Salinger's office and write 'INSANE' on Dean's patient report in his own handwriting.

Salvation awaited him at the end of the buffet where a plastic tray with acceptable looking Brownies greeted him. Dean grabbed three, pondered a second before he grabbed two more and strolled over to a drip coffee maker, pouring the dark steaming liquid into a styrofoam cup, praying that this coffee would taste better then the whole breakfast looked.

On his way to the 'special' area Dean risked a glance at the other people. Most of them were bound up in their eating process, the arm not occupied handling the plastic cutlery cradling the plates and bowls, heads hanging so low they were almost placed right in the food.

Others were clearly agitated, nervous, twitching and shifting, always prepared to defend themselves and their meals. And yet others sat in front of their full plates, staring right at it, maybe through it, obviously not living in the here and now.

When Dean passed a table, he noticed a guy, maybe the same age as Sam, watching him. The kid had stopped eating and scrutinized him like a pissed off tiger, stabbing him with a hateful stare.

Dean raised an astonished eyebrow, never slowing his steps. "What's up, kiddo?" he asked nonchalantly, passing the boy but keeping him in sight. He had no intentions to wind up in the infirmary with a plastic fork sticking in the back of his head.

But the kid only continued his glare, didn't reply or move, so Dean took a seat at a vacant table farthest away and decided to ignore the boy. He was in a mental institution, for God's sake. There sure as hell were some maniacs around, it didn't help to freak out every time one of them looked at him funny.

Dean picked up his fork and started to rake through the green stuff, his stomach cheering while his appetite backed off. Maybe he should've taken the pasta. Or maybe he should've just stayed on his cot today. Even better, he should've stayed in the motel room four days ago.

Four days. That was far too long for his liking. At least Salinger had been true to his word, had left him alone, hadn't tried his psycho crap on him. Yet. But he knew he couldn't hide, couldn't escape the sessions and therapy and whatever they had planned for him.

Cursing, Dean slammed the fork onto his plate, lettuce leaves scattering around and landing on the table.

"Don't like the salad?" a familiar voice erupted beside him and he looked up to see Phillip standing there, a tray in his hand. "I should have let you know that the salad's not very famous in here."

"Salad's not very famous anywhere", Dean replied, pushing his tray away, "at least not for me."

Phillip chuckled, "Mind if I join you?"

"No, but why spend the lunch break with the nerds?"

"Because I spend my whole life with the nerds, so lunch break doesn't hurt." He slumped down on the chair opposite Dean with a satisfied sigh and began to eat, the pile of slobbery pasta squishing under the impact of fork and knife. Dean fought the urge to shake himself, the idea of consuming that stuff causing his stomach to cramp.

"You should eat something, Dean", Phillip mumbled in between forkfuls, "It isn't as bad as it looks. The cook's more concerned about the taste of his food. The look? Not so much."

"I'm good, Phil, thanks." Dean took a sip from his coffee, almost crying out in joy at it's wonderful taste before he leaned forward, "But you haven't answered my question. I don't see any other nurse or orderly eating in here, I'm sure there's a cozy little cafeteria for the staff, so why sitting here with me?"

"Dean Rodgers, always suspicious." Phillip put his cutlery down and folded his hands, "Okay, how many people do you see in here, Dean?"

"That a gotcha question?"

"No, no, just take a look around and tell me how many inmates you see."

Dean narrowed his eyes and turned hesitantly. He mentally counted the mumbling, smacking, twitching persons.

"About 200?" he concluded, turning back at Phillip.

"Okay, and how many of them are placed in this area?"

"The special area for the special maniacs, you mean?"

"If you want to call it like this, okay. How many?"

Again, Dean turned, although he already knew the answer to that. In one corner a tired and really sad looking man nestled with his napkin, unfolded it, crumpled it up, only to unfold it again. At another table a woman busied herself with a piece of bread, tinkering the innards out and stuffing them into her mouth.

Once again, Dean faced Phillip. "So, Mister Miyagi and his napkin origami over there, Gretel minus Hansel and the breadcrumbs and my humble self are the only dangerous entities?"

Phillip nodded, "That's right. And as that's a manageable count and I'm ambitious of knowing my patients, I spent my lunch time with them from time to time." He took up his cutlery again and continued eating.

Dean watched as a piece of cauliflower disappeared in Phillips mouth.

He had to admit that he was fairly perplexed by the man's way of looking at things. To Dean, everybody working in here was some kind of nurse Ratchet to him. Everybody in here wanted to plow up his synapses, wanted to distinguish themselves by finding the reason for a mental disease that might be there, no matter how the patient felt or what he had to say. Okay, maybe he had watched 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' one too many times. But the experience he had made here at Lake Okeechobee hadn't been the best so far.

So, meeting a nurse who actually cared for his patients, didn't ride roughshod over them, even spent lunch time with them, that was new. And really surprising in a positive way.

But still…

"You know that I don't want to experience something like yesterday ever again, right?" Dean stated slowly in a slightly warning tone, the memories of last night's events still fresh in his mind, "A syringe that close to me one more time and I might be willing to show you my nasty side. And I'm not sure if you want to have lunch with me again afterwards."

Phillips's expression changed – was it bitterness? – and he laid his cutlery down again. "That had been unpleasant, I know that, Dean. But there are things I have to make sure, and procuring that you and the others take their meds is one of those things."

"But I don't want to take some shady pills without knowing what they do to me", Dean almost shouted, but got a grip in time. He darted his eyes to the left and right and leaned forward. "I'm not crazy, Phil", he hissed, a breeze of desperation resonating in his voice, "And I don't want to take anything that might change that."

"Those drugs don't make you crazy", Phillip reasoned calmly, "It's not like we're giving you Ecstasy or something similar decomposing your brain. Those meds only help you with the symptoms, they can't cure whatever's behind it and they don't do anything with your mind."

"That are great news, doc, so why am I…" …waking up screaming my lungs out? Why am I all of a sudden haunted by feelings buried so deep I thought I'd never face them again? Why can a dream I can't remember dreaming scare the crap out of me?

Dean stopped abruptly and bit his tongue. No. No way. Shut your mouth, Dean.

"Why do you what, Dean?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me", Phillip straightened, and damn, there was so much understanding and true concern in his eyes, "Is there something wrong? Aren't you feeling well? Dean?"

"It's nothing, forget it." Dean pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet, "I'm finished. I take it that the watchdogs guide me back to my cell?"

Phillip gaped up at him, not responding, for what Dean was once again more then grateful. He was too far afield right now. He had jumped into the ocean, had swam out too far, and if he wouldn't start his retreat now, wouldn't escape the blustering waves this second, they might swallow him.

"Yeah", Phillip replied quietly and waved at an orderly, motioning him closer, "You've got an appointment with doctor Salinger at 3 pm."

Dean's breathing hitched. "Hooray", he cried out in mocked enthusiasm, "Looking forward to it."

"And Dean?"

Their eyes met.

"Whatever's on your mind – I might be your nurse. Freaking staff as you might call it. But different to the doctors I don't try to fasten the loose screw. I can accept it and leave it loose the way it is."

Dean held the other man's gaze for a moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He wanted to trust. He wanted to believe Phillip's words. Yearned for an ally in here.

He couldn't. Not yet. Maybe never.

How could he entrust someone with the things he had seen?

* * *

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

_Geez, people, you rock! _

_That said, I'm curious what you think about my doctors – **rubs hands with an evil grin on her face**_

* * *

**Chapter 06**

* * *

He needed to knock this off. Now.

Because repeatedly tapping a ball pen on a notepad was a nervous gesture, and a nervous gesture in a room with two experts of human idiosyncrasies was very out of place.

At least when you were supposed to be an expert on said subject as well.

So Sam forced his hands to stop fidgeting, willed them to relax instead of gripping ball pen and notepad so tight it almost hurt. A glance at the big old longcase clock, the tick tock of it's pendulum being the only noise in the room beside the scratching of doctor Salinger's fountain pen on paper, told him that it was almost time.

And he had still no proper plan.

The next hour was going to be like improvisational theatre. He didn't know if Dean had thought about something, had figured something out, had found a loophole he could squirm his way out through. If so, he had to let Dean take the wheel and had to listen carefully for any hint, any clue what said plan looked like. Same went for him. How could he signal his brother that he hadn't found a solution yet? At least none that would let their problem at hand vanish into thin air.

He had tried to get a hold of Castiel. Nothing. He had talked to Bobby who was as clueless as him, but had promised to make a few calls that might lead to something. Anything.

The way he saw it there was only the 'Great Escape' option left. And man, Dean would love it.

Sam looked over at the two other men. Doctor Salinger wrote something down in a notebook he balanced on the upper one of his crossed legs, pushing his glasses up again from time to time when they threatened to slide down his nose completely.

The other man – what was his name again? Rosebush? Rosenbaum? – skimmed through what looked like a patient file, most probably Dean's. He was definitely a few years older than Salinger, like, decades older. No wonder doctor Rosen-whatever had adopted a reserved stance towards him when Sam and he had been introduced to each other earlier. The disapproving, almost scornful look on the old man's face when he had learned that Sam was a psychiatrist as well had been far too obvious.

Speaking of generation gap.

Sam had no clue what to expect during the next hour. He had gotten a call from Salinger's secretary, inviting him to a session with Dean, the first in days since the doctor had decided to let 'his patient get settled'. Somehow Sam had the feeling 'the patient' wasn't happier now then he had been days ago.

The peaceful albeit uncomfortable quiet was shattered by a commotion in the hallway. Sam jerked his head towards the door and frowned at it as if he could will it to turn into a glass door so he could see what it was about outside. He had that funny feeling that he already knew who was out there, stirring up the premise.

The voices got closer and the moment doctor Salinger rose slowly from his chair the door was pushed open.

Sometimes Sam hated to be right.

An orderly, as tall as Sam and three times his width, a white bandage gracing his nose, held the door open with one arm and pushed his brother into the room with one forceful shove. Dean stumbled in, his eyes and his whole stance screaming 'royally pissed!', but the trademark smirk masking the impending volcanic eruption perfectly.

He found his balance and came to a halt, rolling his eyes before he turned around to the giant at the door.

"Thanks for the ride, Griffin", he chirped, and Sam could see that the orderly was even closer to an eruption than Dean. He almost expected a blow out of steam from the man's ears and caught himself checking the space above Griffin's head for lightnings, skulls and a written 'grrrrrrrrr'.

Sam stood up from his chair as well and it was the moment Dean noticed him. Once again, the moment of recognition was clearly visible on his brother's face, his features softening slightly. Sam tried his most encouraging smile, hoping to keep his sibling grounded for the talking that was about to come.

"Griffin, thank you", doctor Salinger spoke up, nodding at the orderly who still shot daggers at Dean, "Please wait outside in case we might need some help." He reached out a hand and pointed at the only vacant chair. "Dean? Please, have a seat."

Dean's gaze followed Salinger's outstretched arm before he eyed the scene in front of him. "Circle time?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, I'm sure this is way more comfortable than us behind a huge desk and you in front of it like an accused."

"Funny, I thought I am accused?"

"If so you'd be in prison, Dean. As you're still here, you're a patient." Salinger waved his hand, "Now, take a seat."

Dean looked at Sam before he took a few steps backwards and sat down.

The younger Winchester sighed mentally after he had gotten a good look at his brother. Yeah, Dean looked ragged, the stubble on his face already being more then just stubble, the color of his skin more pasty than tanned, the shadows under his eyes attesting the way he must feel. But the bruises courtesy of Griffin's first attack had faded, had changed into an unhealthy yellow and light green. And from what Sam could see there were no new ones. The only thing still disturbing Sam was the bandaged wrist, this special and vulnerable area of the human body being wrapped up giving him an uneasy feeling, especially in this surroundings.

Getting a grip, Sam cleared his throat. "Doctor Salinger, is it common for the staff to handle patients like this?" he asked politely but firmly, emphasizing his tone by straightening further and towering over the two older men.

Time to play hard ball.

He met doctor Salinger's surprised gaze and felt the other doctor's and Dean's eyes on him, too. He knew it was risky to play the asshole, but he needed to compel respect for his views to be taken serious by those ancient guys. And he somehow had the feeling he owed Dean.

"If the patient refuses to cooperate, Doctor Larsson", Salinger replied calmly, "the orderlies are instructed to take appropriate measures. And as we all know Dean is prone to violence I'm sure Mister Griffin had every reason to handle him a bit rough."

"Yeah, right", Sam heard Dean mutter and watched him lean back and cross his arms in defiance.

"But we can use that episode to get started, shall we? Doctor Larsson, please have a seat." Again the waving motion to use the chair, and Sam pondered whether he should indeed sit down or mirror Dean's defiance by staying on his feet. But maybe he should lead by example and keep his jets cool. One hotspur in the room was one enough.

"What happened out there, Dean?" Sam asked, the question fitting for both his roles, the psychiatrist character and his true-self. Doctor Larsson wanting to know if he was right with his conjectures, Sam Winchester wanting to know if someone had dared to mistreat his brother.

However, the signals Dean sent out to him were unambiguous. _Leave it, Sammy, you can't help with this. Griffin's my problem._

"It's nothing, doc", Dean answered, waving a dismissive hand, "just a slight variance, that's all. And there was no need to show some of my famous violence." He almost spat the last part in Salinger's direction, causing the older man to smile.

"You call him 'doc'?" It was the first sentence doctor Rosen-something said, hell, it was the first sound Sam heard from him since he had entered the office half an hour ago only to find Salinger and the unfamiliar man read reports and notes, studying his brother as if he was some kind of rat. The man's appearance and his lacking decency towards him had set Sam's alarm off already. That question in combination with that special tone let his alarm bells ring even louder.

"Oh, Dean, I forgot to introduce doctor Charles Rosenberg", Salinger stated excitedly, "he's a mastermind on the subject of predatory behavior and aggression, a pre-eminent in his field, I might say."

Sam didn't know whether to laugh at the 'predatory' thing or drop his jaw at the celebrity aboard. He scribbled the name on his notepad, making a mental note to do some research on the guy. Two things he knew for sure already: he didn't like Rosenberg and he didn't like Rosenberg anywhere near Dean.

His brother however, didn't seem to be too impressed by the man's attitude. "I call him doc because I call every doctor doc, doc", he returned wryly, tilting his head down as if looking over an imaginary pair of glasses.

Rosenberg smiled a cold smile, "I noticed that you two must be close, so I reckoned you'd call him by his first name, that's all."

Sam was sure the impact of his stomach plummeting all the way down into the cellar of the building was deafening. Judging from the slightly stunned expression on Dean's face his brother hadn't expected this, either. How did he know? What did he know?

"What makes you think we're close?" Sam heard himself say, his voice surprisingly emotionless.

"I'm an acute observer, doctor Larsson", Rosenberg answered, "It's the reason I'm good in my job."

Mental notes, one: keep a straight face. Two: special attention to eyes and voice. Three: think about everything you're going to say three times. Four: pray that Dean got the memo, too!

Sam returned the cold smile, "I dare say you're right", he countered. And he hoped that his facade worked, that the mighty doctor Rosenberg didn't notice the huge rifts that had formed in it by his nice observations.

"Gentlemen", Salinger spoke up, "I'm glad you are here. Dean, I promised to leave you alone for a few days and I kept my word. So, how about we start from scratch today, what do you say?"

"If you think I'd be more chatty today I'm sorry to disappoint you, doc." Dean's posture said 'Bite me!'. His tone said 'Leave me alone.' But his eyes failed to lead astray. They didn't manage to hide the insecurity that ate him up, slowly, but steady.

Sam could see it. He only hoped Rosenberg couldn't.

"I didn't expect you to switch into a model patient, Dean, so I'm grateful for everything I get." There was it again, that strange smirk that should go down in history as the famous Salinger visage. Every time Sam saw it on the man's face, he had to suppress a shudder.

"Do you have problems with authority?" Rosenberg took the floor. And why did that question from that mouth in that tone make Sam queasy?

He watched as Dean scrutinized the old man before his brother answered, "What gives you the idea?" And man, did Sam yearn for a pompom right now so he could cheer for his brother.

Rosenberg didn't amplify, just lowered his gaze and began to write something down into a big black book on his knee before he looked up at Dean again.

"Who's the dominant part of your parents, Dean?"

It was back, the feeling of his stomach taking the fast way down. Sam hadn't been relaxed since he had parked the Impala on the facility's parking lot and he wouldn't have believed that it was even possible for the tension holding him in a vice-like grip to rise even further.

No family issues. Please, no.

"Is that really necessary?" Sam asked, trying to turn the wheel, but obviously going unheard. His eyes darted from Rosenberg to Dean, who just stared back at the old man and Sam couldn't tell if his brother was as uncomfortable with the question as he thought he would.

"Was", his sibling replied calmly, his eyes narrowing at Rosenberg, who frowned.

"Excuse me?"

"The question should be, who _was_ the dominant part. My parents are both dead."

Like greedy reporters both docs scribbled something into their note books and pads, and Sam felt the urge to yank the notes from their bony claws and give them some thick ears with it. Yeah, okay, there you have your patient profile, the root of all evil. Dead parents are always a nice little wound to rub salt into.

"My sympathies", Rosenberg said, "may I ask how they died?"

"You may ask but you won't get an answer", Dean spat, "No offense, doc, but this is none of your business."

Rosenberg huffed out a laugh, "Oh, I'm afraid it is." He pulled his glasses from his nose and put them behind him on the desk. Then, he resumed his relaxed sitting posture and looked at Dean – no, he didn't look at him, he stared at him. Pierced him, as if he tried to cause his brother's eyeballs to explode by sheer concentration alone.

"Listen, Dean", he hissed, not too sharply but definitely warning, "There are a lot of procedures we can use to get to know you better. This..." he made a whirling motion with his index finger, "...is the pleasant one. Hypnosis would be the next step, and trust me, under hypnosis there's no chance for you to keep something from us. You may think about giving us at least a few crumbs here or I promise you there'll be no way for you to control what you tell us and what not."

The only thing cutting through the heavy silence was the steady tick-tock of the longcase clock. And if Sam had to entitle Dean's darkest glare of all times, it would be the one he was currently sending towards old doctor Rosenberg.

He was surprised. He hadn't thought that the doctors would bare their claws that soon. He had hoped that they would have more patience with Dean, that there would be more time. For them to be prepared. For them to make up a proper life story.

Hypnosis. No way. Not happening.

"Dean", Sam spoke up, trying to get a hold of his brother, addressing him with a second, more vigorous "Dean!" when he didn't react. The muscle in Dean's jaw jumped wildly, but he finally looked over, his eyes and expression void of any betraying questions in case Rosenberg was still in observation mood. Sam pushed his feelings down, too, and added: "Crumbs, Dean."

He watched his brother blink, watched as he silently agreed to Sam's plan. "Fine", Dean growled, causing Salinger to shift awkwardly on his chair. He slid icy greens over to Rosenberg. "My mom died when I was four. So I'm sorry to disappoint, I don't remember who's been the dominant one."

Salinger eagerly scribbled again while Rosenberg went on, "When did your father die?"

"About two years ago."

"What happened to your parents, Dean?"

"My mom died in a house fire, my father in a car accident."

While Sam watched his brother, knew how hard those question were for him, felt every single one of it, too, hitting home like a hailstone impacting on a fragile tin roof, he could only marvel at Dean's ability to wear a poker face in a way only his brother could.

Had he been there when his mother had gotten killed? Bang. Had he any memories of that event? Bang. Could he describe those memories? BangBang.

Their family tragedy was the truth. It was the only truth those doctors would get. And Sam wished Rosenberg and Salinger would choke on those crumbs.

All those questions about their mom, followed by similar questions about their dad, about the relationship Dean and dad had, about happy times and less happy times...and Sam waited for the moment Dean would break into fragments. Because he would either do that, or he would explode, turn into a hurricane tearing everything down with him.

But no hurricane came. No explosion shook the room. No one broke down.

And it was what worried Sam the most.

Rosenberg was still reeling down his questionnaire when Sam clapped his hands together forcefully, causing Salinger to jump from his chair and eye him with a piqued expression.

"Okay Gentlemen", Sam spoke up, rising from his chair, "I think that's enough for now." He tried to make eye contact with Dean, and when their gazes finally met, Sam almost flinched at the raw pain he found shimmering in the green depths before the shutters were let down again, the poker face replacing the signs of hurt and sorrow instantly.

"Yes", Salinger replied, writing something on his note pad again before he, too, stood up, "Well, thank you Dean, that was a very productive session. Was it so hard?"

Dean slid dangerously flashing eyes from Sam to Salinger and Rosenberg, having a long close look at the two doctors before he wordlessly stood and headed for the door. Whatever was going on in his mind and heart right now, Sam already knew it was something only he could fix.

"I'd like to accompany Dean to his cell, if you don't mind?" he asked, following his brother, tossing a questioning look to Salinger. There was no way he would let his brother go like this. There was some emo talk in the pipeline, or at least some comforting words.

"Sure, we can meet again later on to discuss this last hour", Salinger replied, waving at Sam. And it was that cheery mood the doctor was in since wrapping up this session that let Sam's temper rise. The man acted like a cowboy, pride as a peacock over finally breaking a wild horse.

Sam had no time to dwell on his anger. Dean was already out of the room, flanked by Griffin who had a tight grip on his upper arm, so the younger Winchester grabbed his bag and hurried after them.

"What, no cheeky line? Did they pull your teeth, tiger?" Sam heard Griffin scoff when he caught up with his brother and he needed everything to keep himself from slamming his fist onto the man's bandaged nose.

"Hey", he spat instead, "Shut up, or I might be tempted to talk to your superior about your techniques."

Griffin acknowledged him with a scornful glare. "Uh-huh. And what kind of techniques would that be?" he asked dryly.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Griffin. And I tell you what, this ends, now, or I'm going to make sure that you get what you deserve, are we clear?"

"I'm curious about it", Griffin countered, his expression a mixture of suspicion and gleefulness, and Sam would have continued this all day long when he heard Dean mutter a bugged 'Oh, come on' and watched him quickening his pace.

Okay, so there was someone in a really crappy mood.

The rest of the unpleasant walk was silent and the trio finally reached cell number 77. Griffin opened the door and leaned against it, watching first Dean, then Sam enter, not without presenting the younger Winchester a humorless grin.

"Don't take too long", he piped mockingly, "Visiting hours are almost over." With that, he closed the door behind the brothers with a loud bang, leaving them alone.

Sam shook his head. "Wow, what an ass." He let his gaze wander through the room. There was a small tabletop, coming out of the wall like a shelf. Two stools, screwed to the ground, so the patient couldn't use them as weapons. The room was illuminated by a big, quadratic ceiling lamp, that looked almost like a skylight if it weren't for the pale blueish, cool color that gave the room an icy atmosphere.

Sam's eyes fell on Dean who had laid himself down on the cot, one arm over his eyes, the other one draped over his stomach.

"Dean? You okay?"

A sigh. A tired wave with the left before it flopped back on his belly again.

Sam let out a sigh of his own and slumped down on one of the stools, for a second feeling as if he had taken a seat in a doll's kitchen, and pinched his nose. "Dean. Come on, man, talk to me."

"I'm done with talking, Sam", came the hoarse reply.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't want to coax you to spill your guts in there. But the way I see it it's our only chance. Feed them some crumbs, buy some time."

"And what next?" Dean pulled his arm from his eyes and sat up wearily, almost defeated, big tired greens looking back at Sam. "Huh? You have no plan how to get me out of this. Neither do I. So what's the use in buying time? Because I tell you something, buying time means not only revealing more things I'd rather keep to myself, it also means that I have to stay in here longer then I want to." There was something in the way he said it that let Sam instantly knew there was more behind Dean's words then just 'This sucks, I want out!'.

Sam could hear the 'I won't hold on for that long!', could feel the begged 'Please, Sammy!' loud and clear.

"I know, I know. I'm working on it, Dean. Bobby's working on it, too."

Dean just nodded, eyes to the ground.

„Will you be okay?" Sam asked softly, his brother's dread rubbing off on him, the fact that Dean didn't even try to hide it unnerving him to no end.

"Do I have a choice?" Dean answered, a weak smile on his face.

"I'm afraid you don't, no. But if it helps, I'll be there. I'm attending every session, you're not alone in this." Sam paused before he added, "Hey, I might even get to know you better, what do you think?" The younger Winchester tried his best shit-eating grin and slapped his brother's upper arm playfully, hoping to keep him from sinking further into the swamp of anxiety and unease. He knew he had succeeded when he noticed the tiniest sparkle in Dean's eyes.

"Not funny, Sam", his sibling growled, but the tension was already waning.

A sudden knock on the window startled the brothers and seconds later Griffin's head popped up at the small pane. "Time's over", he announced, his voice muffled through the thick glass, and the mechanism of the door opener sang it's song. Slide. Beep. Click.

The heavy door opened and the sturdy man nodded his chin down the hallway. "Time for dinner, Rodgers." His eyes met Sam's, "The doctors Salinger and Rosenberg are waiting for you."

"Of course they do", Sam grunted and rose from his stool, every fiber of his body striving against returning into the lion's den. He'd rather stay one hour in this tiny cell on a tiny spine-killing stool than one minute on a comfortable leather chair in Salinger's office, discussing his brother's – and his – family history.

And he didn't want to leave Dean right now.

For one, he enjoyed his presence. Dean wasn't quite the Dean he normally was, given the circumstances, yet it felt good to have him around. There were times Sam wished for a few hours or days on his own, but now, after four days in the motel, researching and studying psychology, eating alone, watching TV alone, he was so done.

Secondly, he had the feeling that his sibling was a tad too fragile after the involuntary soul striptease, the obviously unexpected train of well-hidden emotions rolling in from behind having caught Dean in surprise. He was still laying on the tracks, stunned and confused, needing some time to get himself together again.

How could Sam be Dean's shield if they were separated again?

"Where's Phillip?" Dean asked suddenly, passing first Sam, then Griffin and coming to a halt in the hallway, once again gripped by the orderly.

"Not here", Griffin answered briskly, "half day off. Guess you have to make do with me."

Sam had to bite back a snort at the sight of Dean's broad grin and the mock-delighted 'Hmmmmm' that came humming from his brother's lips, a sarcastic answer that was so Dean, it was hard to believe that this was the same man Sam had just needed to give moral uplift to.

Nonetheless, the rough shove Griffin passed along to his brother let Sam's suspicion of a smile die away immediately.

"Easy", he hissed, shooting daggers at the orderly who just raised a provocative eyebrow at him. What the hell was wrong with that guy?

The trio began to walk down the hallway they had come from half an hour ago, past closed cell doors with black windows. As the dining area lay on the way to Salinger's office, Sam was glad he could accompany his brother for a while longer, his urge to stand between Griffin and Dean stronger now that he had become somewhat acquainted with the big ass of an orderly. Not that Dean needed his little brother's protection, he was very capable of defending himself. But in here the rules were different, Dean knew it and Sam knew it, too.

"Who's Phillip?" Sam asked curiously, trying to distract himself from the disturbing fact of Griffin's meaty paw gripping Dean's arm, the grip highly likely too tight for an absolutely cooperating patient.

"My nurse", Dean replied and added a tired smirk that lacked it's usual jauntily beaming, causing Sam to wince inwardly once more.

"Is he the good cop?" And would someone please take a picture of that deathly glare he's just getting from Griffin?

"Yeah, he's okay, I like the guy. And guess what, he..."

Dean stopped dead in his tracks so suddenly Sam was sure his brother had just collided with an invisible wall.

From the expression on his face it must have been more a ghost rather than a wall.

Pure horror was etched on Dean's face. Huge, saucer-like eyes stared right past Sam, unblinking, shock and fear radiating from glassy greens. His lips were slightly parted in silent denial and disbelief, his posture resembling a pillar of salt.

"Dean?" Sam halted his own steps and darted worried eyes from Dean into the direction his brother was staring. There was nothing. A cell door. With a window. As dark as every other window in every other cell door they had passed and would pass.

"Dean?" Sam tried again, approaching him slowly, carefully as not to startle him, a featherweight hand on Dean's shoulder serving as the only instrument to ground him. "Hey? What's wrong? What is it?" Once more Sam tried to make out at what Dean was looking at, seeing nothing extraordinary. He glanced briefly at Griffin who seemed to be as stunned over the abrupt stop.

Dean still wasn't moving, not even twitching, was still staring at something only he seemed to be aware of. And while Sam pondered over the best and most cautious way to pull his brother from the unexpected shocked stupor, it was Griffin's famous delicacy of feeling that took the wheel.

"Hey, Rodgers!" he hollered, shaking Dean roughly, "Snap out of it!"

Sam's imminent outburst of rage and violence towards the orderly was choked off in an instant when Dean flinched and blinked, the empty stare switching into a confused look, but finally focusing on his concerned gaze. This time Sam didn't care about featherweight hands and gripped both his brother's shoulders.

"Hey. You okay? Dean?"

The walls were down again. Sam could see it immediately. They were crumbled. In ruins. Like a strip mining after a blasting operation. And whatever had tore them down, it had made a good job of it. Sam couldn't think of a moment he had seen such a frightened look on his brother's face.

"Uh...I...", Dean stammered, his eyes jumping from Sam, past Sam, to Griffin and back at Sam again, and the younger Winchester wanted nothing more then to grab Dean's head and put an end to that jumbling and jumping and darting of nervous eyeballs.

"What's going on there, huh?" Sam heard Griffin ask from behind him, felt the big man invade his personal space and he yanked his arm up without turning around, stopping the orderly from coming closer.

"Griffin", he growled, "Leave it. Don't you have some chains to polish?" Sam heard the man huff, but saw him step back from the corner of his eye. Satisfied, he laid his hand back on Dean's shoulder. "Dean? You alright?"

Dean licked his lips and thank God, his eyes came finally to a standstill, meeting Sam's. He nodded jerkily and ran a hand over his face. An unnervingly trembling hand, Sam noted.

"Yeah...I...sorry...just...", he chuckled nervously, "Guess I've just zoned out, huh?"

No kidding.

Sam nodded slowly, never stopping to drill holes into his brother by scrutinizing him closely. "What did just happen, Dean?"

"Nothing, really. I...just thought I've seen someone, that's all."

"Where? In one of the cells?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Must have been a shadow or something. Those cells are empty, right, Griffin?"

"Empty like the proverbial pocket the devil dances in", came the rumbled, surprisingly poetic reply from behind Sam.

And did Dean just flinch at the word 'devil'?

"S...see. There you go. Guess I'm seeing things now." That nervous chuckle again. Man, sometimes his brother was the baddest liar.

"Dean", Sam hissed, leaning in closer, their noses almost touching, "What did you just see? Or who? And stop giving me the run-around here, I'm not one of those doctors who have just met you, remember? Now spill." Sam knew there was an unaccustomed sharpness in his tone, but what he had just witnessed had cut him to the core, too, and the hell would he let Dean get along with bullshitting around.

Sam noticed his mistake too late, a mistake he made every damn time when his concern for Dean drowned his sensitivity and he got angry over his brother's inability to just tell him what the fuck was wrong. And yes, he wasn't one of those doctors who didn't know his brother, in fact, he knew his brother better then anyone, so from all people he was the one that should know best that forcing Dean into a corner was the falsest way to go.

So when Dean's features darkened slightly, the huge bright eyes narrowed, the agitated expression turned into something similar to annoyance Sam knew he had made his favorite mistake again.

"That's ridiculous, Sam", Dean hissed back, "There is nothing to spill. There was a shadow or a reflection, whatever, it's nothing. Now take your hands off me if you don't mind."

Sam hadn't noticed that he still had a good grip on his sibling's shoulders and for a second he wanted to use that grip to shove Dean against the wall for reacting like this, for brushing off his attempt to be there for him so ill-mannered.

Instead Sam pulled his hands away, held them up in a surrendering gesture. "Fine", he spat, "have it your way."

"Thank you." With that Dean turned and walked on, heading towards the big double doors at the end of the hallway as if nothing had happened, followed by a mischievously grinning Griffin.

Sam didn't move, just watched them march off, fury and incomprehension piling up in him like a mushroom cloud.

Reflection my ass. Something had scared the crap out of his brother and Sam couldn't think of a shadow or a reflection that could do something like this. There wasn't much in the world that left Dean speechless. Or frozen. Or catatonic. Even if it had lasted only seconds.

"Stupid ass", he muttered and glanced over to the cell door Dean had stared at, approached it and looked through the window, cupping his hands so he could make out anything in the dark. But Griffin and Dean had been right, there was no one in there.

Just an unoccupied cell. Nothing more.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

_It's christmas, ladies and gentlemen! And therefore I have a chapter for you today! So, if you're in the mood for something lacking the usual jingle bells and gingerbread smells – this is what I have to offer._

_In case I don't reply to your reviews: it's because of the holidays. Which means I'm going to reply the very second I'll find the time!_

_That said, I wish all of you merry christmas! Presents you enjoy. People around you you love. Time to find some peace for yourselves. Happy holidays!_

**

* * *

Chapter 07**

* * *

In all his years on this crappy little planet with all the crappy little things that had happened to him Dean realized for the first time during an insane moment while he dazedly elbowed his way through the people in the dining hall that he hadn't drowned yet.

He had been shot, stabbed, choked, had listened to his own heart stumbling, had felt his intestines being squashed, had been torn up by hell hounds, but the feeling of drowning was missing on his list.

Okay, he had almost drowned in some malodorous port in Duluth, but that had been only temporary and he had been able to use the last of his strength to reach firm ground again.

Right now, he could imagine how it felt to drown.

The way from the hallway to this table including the detour to the coffee machine to get an alibi whatever had felt like the struggle from the bottom of the sea to the relieving water surface, all the way the body forcing him to inhale, let it all in.

When Dean finally reached his table in the VIP area, the lonely coffee cup on his tray was enjoying a foot bath and the cup itself was half empty. The clumsy way he almost dropped the tray on the table top threatened to spill the puny rest of the hot liquid as well. Dean slumped down onto the chair, willing his hands to stop trembling, his heart to stop racing, his whole self to calm the fuck down.

Air. He needed air. Breathe. Come on, Winchester, you're surrounded by it, go ahead and pick from an embarrassment of riches. Get a freakin' grip!

He knew he looked like a lunatic right now. Staring at a single cup of coffee, contents mostly outside then inside, his hands laying – or rather vibrating – on the table left and right from the tray. Yeah, okay. Maybe he fitted perfectly in here after all.

A shadow. Right.

Funny shadow. Staring at him from a cell. With a pallor that wasn't natural, with an expression so full of incomprehension, sadness, pain. _Why? Why did I have to suffer? Why through your hands?_

Dean gasped and his hands flew up to his face, the heels pressing down onto his eyes as if pushing them deep into his skull could change what he had just seen. Could erase it from his mind.

At first he had thought it was an inmate. Some other guy locked up because he was as crazy as him, maybe a tad crazier, maybe not, you never know what you get in here, right?

And then he had recognized him.

_Standing in front of a grill, George Foreman style, a standard for every suburban white picked fence family, 'Mike can do it best' written in bold letters on the red apron, a big smile plastered on his face, two teenage kids playing behind him, his wife pouring lemonade into glasses..._

"Stop it", Dean whispered and ripped his hands from his face, looking around to check if someone had noticed, was watching him.

_Last time the apron was gone. So was the smile. But the expression was still there. Every time they met. It was reserved exclusively for him._

"This isn't possible. He can't be here." Dean's vision blurred and he ran an angry hand over his face. "Get a damn grip."

Forcing his breathing to calm down he focussed on the other people in the hall, everybody occupied with their own form of derangement. Eating, drinking, talking, laughing, singing, crying, moaning, yelling.

"I'm hallucinating", Dean muttered, his restlessly wandering gaze stopping abruptly as it met the a familiar face.

The same kid that had scrutinized him earlier that day, the pissed off tiger, sat at his table, same chair, same position. He held a plastic spoon in his hand, poised to disappear in his mouth. Once again he stared at Dean with so much hate, with such an amount of disgust, under normal circumstances the Winchester would have scrolled through his mental list of one-night-stands to search for a girl looking like that kid and would apologize to him for breaking his sister's heart.

Right now it was the last thing Dean needed. He had enough of those looks for today.

He straightened his own features and turned around, gripping the coffee cup so hard he almost scrunched it up and emptied it in one gulp, wincing at the luke warm temperature. He glanced over to the door where Griffin was talking to another orderly.

The asshat had bought his story, had accepted the shadow-or-reflection-or-what-the-fuck-ever explanation. No further questions, the crazy guy sees things, duh, so why make a hubbub.

With his brother it was a whole other thing.

Damn the Sam-Winchester-scrutinizing-X-ray-vision. He had seen right through Dean's facade, had noticed the panic, had recognized his reaction for what it had been and still was: speechless terror. To shake Sam off like this didn't suit him in the slightest, but to discuss his weird vision with him was out of question, especially in front of an orderly who only waited for a proof of Dean's yet to be confirmed bedlamism.

But the honest concern in Sam's eyes, his little brother's own surge of panic – for the tiniest second Dean had wanted to jump into Sam's arms and beg him to keep him safe, like a scared kitten afraid of the world.

"Rodgers!"

An electroshock would have had the same effect on Dean.

He jumped a few inches up from his chair, swallowed down the yelp and for a second was really glad that the crumpled cup in his hands was empty.

"Geez, Griffin", he choked out, "Don't they equip you guys with bells around your necks?"

"Nah, would spoil the fun", the orderly answered and nodded at Dean's tray. "Have you been eating something?"

"Not hungry."

"Afraid of losing your gay appearance by gaining too much weight?"

Oh yeah, that was another point on Dean's list of things he didn't need right now. Griffin's ever open cake hole and all the crap that came tumbling from it.

"Apparently you're the best evidence that too much weight doesn't get in the way with a gay appearance", Dean answered nonchalantly, presenting a humorless smile at Griffin.

The bulky man came closer and leaned down, his face inches away from Dean's. "I'm just saying", he growled, dangerously calm and quiet, "an empty stomach doesn't go well with the medication. You might get clumsy. Ham-fisted. Slow. I'm not sure if you wanna take that risk."

Before Dean was able to reply he was yanked to his feet, Griffin gripping a fist-full of the back of his shirt. He was roughly pushed forward towards the doors, would soon pass evil-eye-kiddo on his way out. Oh, Dean was done. He had enough of paternalism, didn't want more visions of old acquaintances in shabby windows, had it up to here with way too fat, overconfident orderlies pushing him around, didn't want to talk to some white-coats about his family, was fed up with some mad guys giving him the evil stare from the second he entered a room until he left it again.

He wanted to smash all the windows and mirrors, wanted to break Griffin's neck, wanted to poop on the fine doctors' desks, wanted to beat the hell out of the creepy kid. But he couldn't. If he'd do one of those things, it would be over. No way for Sam or anyone else to get him out of here, out of this.

Dean jerked himself out of Griffin's grip, "I can walk alone, thank you very much", he hissed over his shoulder and stomped along. When he was on a level with the staring boy he slowed down and mirrored the kid's grim expression.

"What's the matter with you, huh?" he spat, "Sorry to destroy your illusions but 'If looks could kill' is indeed just an idiom, so unless you're a Jedi knight I won't keel over dead when you look at me like that, so skip it."

Dean felt Griffin's hand on his back again, was only seconds away from whirling around and start a fight, no matter where it would lead him, when he heard the kid's venom-dripping answer.

"It's a good thing that you are here", he said, his hate-filled eyes narrowing, "now all the people in hell can rest."

Dean was thunderstruck. The rage, the frustration, everything that had him boiling suddenly turned into a giant ice cube in his stomach, numbed his senses, let his heart skip a beat.

"W...what?" he stammered, his legs on the brink of giving out.

"The people in hell can rest and we up here can take vengeance for them. You'll see. You'll see."

He was dreaming. He must have fallen asleep somewhere during the session with Rosenberg and Salinger. Or maybe he was still in his cell and Sammy was right beside him, keeping guard next to his cot, protecting him from Griffin or anyone else. Yeah. That's it. There was no other explanation for this brat to say something like this.

He didn't know. Couldn't know. Impossible. Get a grip. _._

"Okay, sorry to interrupt your nutball reunion but it's time to go beddy-byes", a deep voice rumbled from behind Dean, causing him to flinch _Griffin, it's Griffin, relax, or maybe don't, but it's Griffin, you're here, you're back, ignore the kid, it's Griffin._

They looked at each other like predator and prey. The kid with his cold eyes, his right hand kneading the plastic cutlery he still held in his hand, ready to jump at Dean in a blink of an eye.

"Rodgers! Now", came Griffin's order, ripping Dean from his paralysis. He blinked, clenched his jaw and with one last glance at the boy he turned and stumbled off, confusion and irritation leaving his mind reeling and his limbs uncooperative.

Thank god Griffin kept his trap shut on their way to cell no. 77, the silence an urgently required good given the things that had happened during the last hour.

Dean's gaze was glued to the floor, the pattern of the granite becoming a blur, the sound of the various steps and voices echoing and reechoing in the huge hallway while the inmates left the dinning hall to get back into their cells and rooms a numb murmur in his ears.

Once again they passed the cell allegedly inhabiting a face of Dean's past and his mind screamed to keep his head down, to but curiosity and hunter instinct were stronger. But when he slowly raised his head, ready and not ready to see incomprehension, sadness, pain, there was nothing there. No face. No expression. Nothing. A black window.

Just an unoccupied cell. Nothing more.

A timid wave of relief washed over him. Problem one, squibbed. Problem two, let's think about that one later.

"Still scared of your little window of horror, Rodgers?" Griffin teased from beside him, and why had Dean somehow known that he had to expect a remark from the orderly when they'd pass this door?

Dean puffed out his breath and decided not to comment the remark. He was tired. All he wanted was to get in his cell, get some shut-eye, maybe a dreamless night for a change.

Wishful thinking.

When they reached Dean's cell, Griffin opened the door and the Winchester shuffled in, slumping down onto his cot, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heard Griffin click his tongue and looked up, grimacing when the orderly pointed at the table where someone had placed the usual tray with the usual cup of water and the usual pills earlier.

Dean pondered over the idea to offer resistance, to refuse taking that crap. Ever again. But he knew there was a syringe waiting for him as an alternative and it hadn't been a pleasure getting it from Phillip. To get it from Griffin was an experience he really wasn't keen on.

And maybe taking the freakin' pills was the best thing he could do tonight. Maybe those drugs could provide him with the peaceful slumber he yearned for, the kind of sleep he surely wouldn't get tonight, after all the crazy shit that had happened today.

_You haven't had one single night of peaceful slumber since you're in here, so why do you expect to have one tonight?_

"You prefer the prickling version?" Griffin asked impatiently, and Dean could swear the son of a bitch was beaming inwardly at the idea of ramming a needle into his favorite patient's throat. So Dean took the pills and downed them with a venomous smile, putting the emptied cup back on the tray with a mocking gesture.

"Awwww, aren't you a little angel."

"Always happy to make your day, Griff", Dean replied and laid back, pushing his shoes off, his smile widening at the sound of the cell door slamming shut.

When Griffin's steps retreated and the noise from outside quietened down, Dean's mind began to wander, the boy's hate-filled face popping up in front of his inner eye.

_'It's a good thing that you are here.'_

_'Now all the people in hell can rest.'_

There was no way the kid could know...about him. About hell. About what he had done down there. Sam was the only one who knew. And even his little brother had waited months before Dean had finally opened up to him, had finally revealed what kind of monster he was. And still Sam didn't know the whole truth, the fine details, the complete range of masks Dean had worn in the pit.

If he would, he would see his big brother with different eyes. There ways would part. Dean was sure about that.

Maybe that was the kid's kink? Maybe everyone in here heard those words, maybe everyone had to endure that evil-stare. And it was only him freaking out about it because he had a past where those allegations hit home.

No. That was a bit too much of a coincidence.

Which lead to one conclusion. Demon. The kid effectively knew because he had been either down there, had seen him, maybe was one of Alistair's henchmen, looking for him, like a scout. So, soon the place would be swarming with demons, hunting him, scratching each other's eyes out to get him first.

Dean shuddered, the idea of deep sleep very inconvenient all of a sudden. He ripped his eyes open, blinked against the fatigue that threatened to pull his eyelids closed again, concentrated on something, anything to keep himself from falling into the abyss.

_'It's a good thing that you are here.'_

_'Now all the people in hell can rest.'_

He struggled into a sitting position, searched his brain for a song he could sing, some lyrics he could think off, concentrate on, keep himself busy and awake because sleep was no issue anymore, it was suicide, yep, who sleeps when he's locked up in a cell with demons around, attempting one's life, salt? I need salt. Dining hall, tomorrow, or maybe Phillip can get me some, have to come up with a reason that doesn't sound too crazy but hey, they know I am so why the worries...

It was the unnatural pallor he noticed first. The bright spot that shone even brighter from the corner of his eyes. And even before Dean looked at it, he knew what it was.

Looking through the window into his cell. With an expression so full of incomprehension, sadness, pain. _Why? Why did I have to suffer? Why through your hands?_

And suddenly Dean's eyes were wide open.

* * *

Sam closed the door behind him and fell back against it with a sigh, the briefcase with all the documents dealing with his brother's supposed mental disorder being dropped onto the carpet.

Of course Rosenberg and Salinger were like bloodhounds after learning about their parents, small, enthusiastic astronomers who just found out that there is indeed life on the moon. They had analyzed, investigated, compared, had more then once regretted that Sam refused to give out Dean's records, which of course only existed in Sam's mind 'because it would have saved a lot of time and would avoid detours that might be unpleasant for the patient'.

For them, the fact that Dean had lost his mother at an early age, had travelled around with a grieving father, had changed schools like other people socks was the key to the drawer they wanted him in. As if someone with such a dramatical childhood could only become a cold-blooded killer with a propensity towards supernatural monsters like werewolves.

They had no idea.

With one final frustrated bang of his head against the door Sam pushed himself off and trudged through the motel room, shedding himself from his jacket and loosening his tie. He came to a halt in front of the bathroom mirror, wincing at the haggard, tired face that greeted him.

A proper splash of cool water to said face later he watched the drops crawl down his cheeks and chin, his hope oozing away in the same speed the water vanished from his skin.

"You're no step closer in getting Dean out of there", he muttered to himself, "And to crown it all your brother lies straight to your face." Sam slammed his fist against the mirror with an outcry of rage, a spiderweb of broken glass appearing underneath his hand instantly.

He was powerful. He was able to send demons back to hell. Soon he would be able to kill them for real, not only pushing them back into fiery depths of hell only to cross their paths again weeks or months or years later. He would eliminate them. Exterminate them.

Despite all that it was his pig-headed ass of a brother he couldn't handle, his obstinacy in combination with the unpleasant situation he had brought himself into.

Marching back into the room, he pulled his cell from his jacket and scrolled through the numbers. He pondered over calling Ruby or Bobby, but dismissed the idea of calling either of them. Bobby would have called if he had found a solution. Calling him, rushing him would only set him on edge, would only put the man's worry-o-meter further up then it already was in the given situation.

And Ruby? What could she probably do? Nothing for Dean, that much was clear. And Sam wasn't in the mood for some blissful carefree moments right now, neither sexual nor thirst-quenching ones.

He slumped down onto the chair that surely had an imprint of his ass on it's seating surface already and fired up his laptop, grinding his teeth while he stared at the monitor and waited for the thing to boot.

That son of a bitch could deny any visions or sightings all he wanted, and if that Griffin guy was stupid enough to fall for Dean's lame subterfuges, fine, but Sam wasn't that easy to fool. Whatever had been there, it had scared the crap out of Dean. And if his brother wouldn't talk to him, he would find out on his own. Not enough problems at hand already, Sam had to go on a hunt for something Dean had seen and didn't want to talk about.

Opening the pages he had already ploughed through a hundred times this week Sam once again skimmed through the historical sites of the hospital, wrote down notes, researched through newspaper reports, blogs and forum postings, looking for any suicides, murders, strange events. Somewhere in between he chastised himself for not thinking about getting coffee and something to eat. But soon he was too engrossed in his research to notice his fatigue and hunger.

If it was a ghost Dean had seen, Sam would find it. If it was something else it might take longer.

But Sam would find it.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

_Another chapter because, hey, it's Sunday! Thanks to all of you who read and review this story, I just can't say it too often! I'm so flattterd!  
_

_Warnings for some cruel hellish moments. Be prepared._

* * *

**Chapter 08**

_

* * *

It had so__mething archaic and at the same time something oddly calming. Ruminant._

_The cool blade eating it's way through the protecting bark to cut into the vulnerable insides of the doomed twig. At least one of them down here was allowed to die. For good._

_He remembered doing this before. He remembered a river, mountains, the whole nine yards nature offered, a place that was so rarely visited by them, let alone used for precious spare time that was so badly needed, but seldom granted in their line of business and with the type of guy their father was._

_He remembered Sammy wading through the current, his jeans turned up to his knees, trying to catch something with a makeshift fishing rod. It was a good one, he himself had lend his little brother his support while Sam had built it, but unfortunately a perfectly tinkered fishing rod wasn't very useful in the hands of an impatient 10 year old. Not that there was a chance Sam would catch a fish in the raging river, but why ruin the illusion?_

_He remembered a smile on his face at Sammy's swearing and cursing and he lowered his gaze, continued his work on the stake, the sharp blade running over the wood like smoothly._

_It was a perfect moment, a perfect memory, a bright small stone in the dull tessellation that was his life. It hurt like a mother when the sun suddenly darkened, his surroundings faded, the rushing of the river turned into screams and the sizzling of flesh._

_Because this was one of oh so many parts of hell. It showed you what you once had. Only to rip it violently from your grasp. Fire and blades to kill the body. Memories to kill the soul._

_Dean watched the twig in his hands blacken and crumble to ash, his face crunching up in pain and sorrow only briefly before he pushed his emotions back and his features hardened again._

_You know the drill, you've been here long enough. _

"_Please."_

_He stared at the ashes of the twig in his open palm, watched as it was blown away from the hot breeze that seemed to be his constant companion, tilted his hand to help the remnants find their freedom._

"_Please...oh God..."_

_The blade was heavy, but the hilt fit into his fist as if made especially for him._

"_Please..."_

"_Stop pleading", Dean growled, and he looked up from his sitting position on top of the dark solid rock he had settled himself on, the rock from his memories, warmed by the sun, smoothed by hundreds of years of river water._

_He let his eyes wander over the man's body, his clothes that hung in tatters from his cadaverous limbs been a rather fine suit once, now a torn patchwork rug drenched in blood, sweat and tears. The chains that held him had scraped his wrists raw, the blood that ran freely down his arms mixing up with the wounds that graced his chest and stomach._

"_Why did you do it?" Dean asked, almost whispered, his voice a dangerous canon of scorn and serenity. _

_The man breathed heavily, tilting his head slightly, "Do what? Please…I…"_

"_I said, stop pleading." Lower. Quieter. Menacingly. "Why did you do it? You threw it away, you threw everything away, just like that. A life many people would have envied you for."_

_His captive shook his head frantically, "No...you don't understand...it was the only way...I made a mistake and my life would have been over anyway...and my wife, my...my kids...they would have paid for my mistakes, too...this was the only way..."._

_Dean narrowed his eyes at the stammering, agitated man in front of him._

"_Listen", the desperate bundle said, "I never did anything wrong. I didn't harm anyone or anything. I...I don't even know why I'm here..."_

"_You killed yourself, Mike, tell me where you thought you'd end?" Dean asked in an amused tone. He raised from his rock, warm, smooth, and eyed his knife, ran his thumb over the sharp edge, watching in mild fascination as his blood began to push out from the fresh cut._

"_Please..."_

_Dean was fast, always had been, always would be, and down here it was almost magical how fast and gracefully he moved. Almost supernatural. So the surprised outcry that erupted from Mike's chapped lips was actually entitled when he found himself quite suddenly face to face with Dean, their noses almost touching, the tip of the knife placed right between his eyes, prickling him._

"_Which part of 'Stop. Pleading.' didn't you get?" Dean whispered viciously, drilling the knife lightly into his captive's skin._

"_Please...NO, no...I mean...let's talk about this, man, okay? Okay?" Mike stammered, tears streaming down his scrunched up face, the chains holding him jangling due to their strain of keeping the flailing man from moving._

"_We've been seeing each other on a daily basis for almost a week now, Mikey", Dean laughed, "How often did we talk about anything?"_

"_Uh...we talked, right? We talked a lot...I told you about my family...all that...we talk a lot..."_

"_I'm not good with talking, you know. I'm a man of action." He cocked his head like an artist admiring a piece of clay he would soon set his hands on to form his own magnum opus, "I wonder how much strength I need to push this baby into your brain."_

"_No...no..."_

"_The skin's no problem, the skull...huh, should crack at some point, and the brain, in case there is one in there..." he knocked against the side of Mike's head with his left, "...might feel like..."_

_Dean froze when a hand closed around his right wrist, gripping him loosely._

"_Don't do this...", Mike pleaded, crying, hyperventilating, beside himself with fear, "Nonononono..."_

_Dark green eyes widened while darting from Mike's face to his wrist and along the hand gripping it, the glare turning into a look of confusion._

_How had Mike managed to get his left arm free of the chains?_

"_I could help you...be your apprentice or something...you don't have to do this...please..."_

_Mike's grip on Dean's wrist was gentle, however, there was a numbing sensation radiating from the touch, Dean's skin cooling rapidly._

"_Let me go", Dean snarled, trying to pry the offending hand loose, "Take your hand off, NOW!"_

"_Look at me...you're not evil...I can see it...you're a good man...please...please...have mercy..." Mike had left the building, it seemed, the desperate rambling accompanied by glassy, unseeing eyes, his right arm still in chains, jangling, jarring, his left one clinging to Dean's wrist._

"_Let go!" Coldness made way for desperation and Dean tried to fight his captured hand and wrist free with all his might, the numbness shifting into pain, causing him to drop the knife. _

"_...not again...don't...not again...please..."_

_God he hurt, how was this possible, he couldn't move his arm anymore..._

"_Please...no more..."_

_Shut up and let me go!_

"_Please..."_

_Please, goddamnit!_

"_...Yo, get up…the early bird catches the worm..."_

* * *

It felt as if he should have jumped up at least five feet from the mattress when he woke. In effect, the only thing that jumped was his heart, feeling like an astray rubber ball in his chest, every single heartbeat causing the room to quake.

The second awareness had found it's way back to him, Dean tore his eyes open, blinking, looking around in confusion, not daring to move anything else except his eyeballs. When he saw the silhouette at the cell door window he almost cried out.

"Doesn't look very healthy, that sleeping position of yours", the silhouette said and banged against the window, "Rise and shine, Rodgers. Morning wash in 30."

Dean watched it vanish from the window, still not moving, the bright sunlight hurting his tired eyes. He blinked, still staring at the now bright white window, closed his mouth, surprised that it had been open in the first place, noticing the small puddle of drool he had his cheek pressed in.

He wanted to calm himself. Wanted to tell himself that it had been just a dream, that Mike was some delusional character from his troubled mind, fading together with the rest of the cobwebs until there was nothing left.

But Mike wouldn't disappear. Wouldn't fade.

_No dream, Dean. No dream._

His right arm began to throb and it was then when he noticed the pain. The same pain he had felt back there with Mike.

He let out a low moan, tried to pull the hurting, dead limb up to check it, realizing that it was buried underneath him.

He had slept on it probably half of the night.

With a grunt, Dean pushed himself up on a shaky elbows, pulled his arm out from beneath him and dropped back onto the mattress, letting his right dangle from the mattress, waiting for the inevitable needles and pins.

He closed his eyes, too tired, too exhausted, grief, shame, dread pressing down on him, squashing him. The dreams he had since he came here were different – more intense, real, they hurt in ways only the real past had hurt. He didn't know why it was Mike who appeared every damn time, why it were the moments with the desperate banker that popped up every time Dean closed his eyes. Mike had been nothing special, just a a poor devil that had taken his life after a few of his business dealings had turned belly-up. Dean hadn't been more brutal or more creative with him. And yet, it was his face waiting behind the windows of this godforsaken facility.

Dean winced as his arm began to tingle and the pain increased once more, the feeling reappearing with vengeance, like a truck driving over his forearm and hand back and forth.

His eyes opened to mere slits and he looked over to the window again.

He could have sworn he had seen Mike out there last night. Or was he already asleep? Drifting maybe, somewhere in between, the dream of hell and the reality of this room melting together? The drugs, maybe?

Slide. Beep. Click. This time there was no face in the window. Just another blurred silhouette which had at least the decency to knock before it entered.

"Hey Dean", the blur said, the voice gentle, the volume subdued, "Dean? Is everything okay?"

_Phillip_, Dean thought, the urge to jump up and embrace the man and never let him go overwhelming, causing him to open his eyes again, this time focusing on the nurse.

Phillip stepped closer and knelt down in front of Dean, laying a hand on his back and shaking him softly, "Dean? You with me?"

Oh, how he wanted to spill his guts right here and now, bawl like a baby, wallow in self-pity, beg for a freakin' lobotomy to get rid of those memories, faces, voices...

_I wish I were...but I think I'm lost..._

"Yes", Dean rasped, licking his lips, for the first time noticing the incredible thirst that had waited patiently in the back for his senses to return. He pulled his still throbbing and tingling arm up and tried to push himself into a sitting position, failing miserably.

What the hell was wrong with him?

"Wait, wait, stay down", Phillip stopped him and pushed him onto his side instead, "Are you sick? Dizzy?" The nurse grabbed his unbandaged wrist and felt his pulse, his worried gaze darting from his wristwatch to Dean's face.

"I'm okay, Phillip", Dean reassured, clearing his throat, "Really, I just had weird dreams, that's all. And my arm fell asleep, nothing to worry about."

"Which one?"

Dean stopped himself from rolling his eyes and waved his right arm, which Phillip grasped immediately, checking it.

"Something wrong with the wrist?" he asked, "Shall we take you to the hospital ward, check the stitches?"

"No, really, it's okay, Phil, you can let it go..."

_Let me go, take your hand off, NOW!_

He slammed his eyes shut again and shook his head slightly, fighting the urge to yank his arm from Phillip's examination.

"Dean?"

"I just need...something to eat, I guess. I'll be as good as new", Dean said, managing a smile that was only a creeping current compared to his usual 10.000 watt smile. He pulled his arm close carefully, relieved that no one was touching him at the moment, and sat up, trying to hide his reaction to the wave of nausea that washed over him.

"When was the last time you ate?" Phillip asked him, and from the look on his face Dean could tell the man was highly suspicious.

"Dinner, yesterday..."

"You had coffee for dinner, Dean. I won't ask why someone has coffee for dinner but I will ask why you don't eat. So?"

Dean snorted. "So Griffin reports my order of courses to you?"

"That's his job."

"Well, that's cute, at least one part of his job he does strictly to rule."

Phillip let out a sigh and ran a hand over his face, and it was that unfamiliar gesture that told Dean something was off with the man today.

"How about we do some role playing", Dean suggested and tilted his head, "I'm the therapist, you're the patient and you tell me what's bugging you today."

At that Phillip barked out a laugh, but even that was lacking the normal lightness it normally had.

"Interesting idea, but I'll pass...although, I could assume your role and say: _I'm fine, it's nothing_."

Dean smiled the first genuine smile since he woke up and took a good look at Phillip. He was pale, he was shaky and nervous.

"Come on, time for a shower and a clean shave", Phillip stated, obviously uncomfortable under Dean's prying eyes and stood, his knee cap cracking in the process.

"No powers of persuasion needed!" Dean exclaimed, feeling his spirits revive at the thought of hot water and a tool to get rid of the uncontrolled growth on his face.

* * *

It was ridiculous how much of a luxury some things became when you had to go without it for some time. You were suddenly able to block out everything.

So Dean gave a rat's ass over the fact that Phillip kept guard for him in the washroom, leaning against one of the basins, discreetly counting the tiles on the floor while Dean himself relished the long overdue shower. Both palms planted against the wall, Dean let the water ease his tension, felt it run down his back along locked muscles, like a river rushing through a long dried riverbed.

He needed to talk to Sam. Had to let him know that there might be a demon in here.

_Talk to him about those dreams and hallucinations, maybe?_

No. No way would he tell Sam. The kid had his hands full already getting him out of here, too much mental hygiene would just...annoy him.

Because this was what Dean's spilling sessions did – they annoyed Sam. At least this was the impression he got. Funny, wasn't it Sam who always wanted to talk, _Come on, Dean, talk to me, __man, what's going on in that mind of yours, huh?_, who always ran around wearing his heart on his sleeve?

Oh yeah, right, the old Sam had done that. The old Sam who had killed demons rather than bang them, the old Sam who wanted to talk and talk and talk and not kill any evil son of a bitch because it wasn't right, even if said son of a bitch was about to rip his geeky head off.

That Sam had died along with Dean. Had been torn to shreds right along with his chest and intestines and all that stuff, had oozed away into the carpet that night along with his life blood.

So no, he wouldn't burden Sam with the dreams that seemed to suck him dry like a leech, with the imaginary people he had tortured in hell popping up like gas bubbles, scaring him, driving him crazy ever so slowly.

Crumbs, Dean.

He would give him crumbs. There was a demon to chase. And there was a big brother to get out. That was enough to chew on.

Dean turned off the water, reluctantly, because he was cold and still tensed up, but he was sure Phillip's throat-clearing concert from the other room wasn't coincidence. Wrapped into a towel he strolled over to where his watchdog already waved a disposable razor and shaving cream at him.

"Can I trust you not to cut through your carotid or mine with this?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at Dean.

"Don't worry, Phil, bleeding out isn't my preferred way to leave", Dean replied, snatching the items from his attendant and set to work.

"No? Which way do you prefer?"

Dean smirked, keeping eye contact over the mirror, "Is this a session, doc?"

Phillip raised his hand in a placating manner, "Nope, sorry, just some mind candy to make the time fly. It's okay, you don't have to answer to that." He lowered his gaze, seemed to count the tiles again and once again Dean noticed the nervousness that radiated from the man, the way he toed something on the floor that wasn't there.

"So, half day off yesterday, huh?" Dean asked casually, running the sharp razor down his cheek, his eyes darting from his to Phillip's reflection.

Let's see if he was able to get to the bottom of the other man's unease.

"Yeah", Phillip replied wearily, "We moved into a house yesterday. You know the old train station just outside town? Ate up my whole savings that wrecked thing, but now it's ours. We spent the last months fixing it up, it's still far away from being cosy, but you have to spend your time with something, right?" While he talked, Phillip's face switched from beaming with joy to wincing in anguish ever so slightly.

"You don't like it?" Dean asked, still casually.

"What? No! Yes, I like it, I do...I...well...it's been a long night, that's all..."

"Long night? Why's that? If you don't mind asking, that is."

Phillip began to chew on his fingernails. A small, insane idea flashed up in Dean's head. Old train station. Been vacant for a long period of time. Long night?

Aw, come on.

"You know old houses", Phillip spoke up, waving a dismissive hand, trying to sound composed, "they're creaking and groaning and all that stuff. You think you hear voices, but it's just the wind and the floor boards."

Dean urged his razor hand to keep on shaving while the cogs in his brain were already turning like windmills in a storm. He had hoped Phillip had had an argument with his wife. Or problems with the payment of some invoices. Or stress.

His hunter instincts told him otherwise.

"Don't forget about all the cold spots", he remarked, watching Phillip carefully.

The other man looked up, confused. He scrutinized Dean for a moment. And nodded slowly. "Yeah. I never...I've never heard of something like this but there were indeed a few last night...like invisible clouds, and you can even see your breath sometimes. And in the next second they're gone again." He stared into nothingness before he shrugged. "Well, there's a lot to seal air-tight, I guess. Can't have all the cold air slip in, huh?"

He smiled a nervous smile that Dean returned, not as nervous, but slightly anxious. "That's were you're right", the Winchester agreed, finishing his shaving quickly.

He needed to talk to Sam.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9

_Hi everybody! I wish you a happy new year, may your next 365 days be stuffed with everything that makes life so exciting and valuable!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 09**

* * *

This was getting old. The whole fiddling and fidgeting and kneading of notebooks, papers, pens, as if he were some nervous wreck.

Maybe he was.

With a sigh Sam shoved the documents across the table, a few of them legit, the rest research, empty pages, the instruction manual of the motel television to let the pile of documents appear thicker. He looked around in the huge meeting room, unconsciously searching for the guy he had seen the first time he had waited here, who had cried his heart out over something. But there were only a few other patients he hadn't seen before, sputtering in excitement or talking quietly to their relatives, friends or whoever visited them.

Sam felt awfully misplaced sitting here in a suit, a briefcase at his feet. He started to fidget again, this time with his fingers, clenching and unclenching his jaw in a steady rhythm, keeping an eye on the double-door separating the cell block from the rest of the sane world.

Oh, he was still pissed. There was a huge bone to pick with his brother, dinosaur size. But when Dean was finally brought in Sam was reminded of the fact that being held in here might be punishment enough.

His brother was still pale, maybe even one or two shades paler then the last time and wore some unflattering circles under his eyes, darker and deeper then Sam had ever seen. And if he didn't knew better he could swear Dean had lost some weight. So either the food in here was bad, like really abysmal, because when did his brother ever refuse to eat, or something was bothering him. And Sam had his doubts that being locked away in here was the only reason.

Some common reflections in harmless looking cell windows maybe?

But it weren't the circles or the pallor or the shrunken appearance alarming Sam. It were the sparkling eyes he noticed even yards away, the way Dean scanned the room as if he expected something jumping him any second, the secret fight-and-don't-you-ever-even-consider-flight stance.

His brother was in hunter mode. And damn if this wasn't contagious, causing Sam to look around, too, eyeing the people in the room once again, searching for black eyes, flickering lights, anything worth to make his hair stand up.

"30 minutes", the orderly rumbled and nodded at the empty chair at Sam's table which Dean gratefully occupied. He watched the orderly step back, making sure he was out of earshot before he met Sam's gaze.

"Tell me you have a plan, Sam", he began, "Come on, make my day."

Sam took another good, now closer look at his sibling, noticing the tension that radiated off Dean.

"I have a plan", he replied and smiled at Dean who briefly closed his eyes an exhaled in relief.

Taking a deep breath, Sam leaned forward as far as he could without looking awkward. "The Great Escape. We're going to relocate you to a facility in New York. On your way up there you are going to disappear."

Dean looked at him, the words sinking in, and frowned. "Okay, now I'm curious. Didn't you already try to relocate me?"

"Yeah, but that was just me, the small, unimportant shrink of Dean Rodgers. This time my big boss himself will call Salinger and instruct the relocation."

A big, knowing smirk appeared on Dean's face. "Singer vs. Salinger. How I'd love to hear that conversation."

Sam returned the smile, although half-heartedly.

He had wished for a better plan. More legal. Well, as if anything was legal these days with them, but anyway. This idea had taken a seat somewhere in his brain right from the start, like a spectator watching other ideas popping up only to get wiped away again. And when Bobby had called last night, presenting the exact same idea, it was a done deal.

It was risky and it was everything but bulletproof. There was no guarantee that Salinger would be taken that easy, for all Sam knew the doc would fight tooth and nail to keep Dean here. He himself wasn't sure if he was be able to forge a relocation warrant in such a perfect way and even if they came that far, even if they managed to get Dean into a van out of here, there was still the 'escape' part.

"When?" Dean's question ripped Sam from his musings.

"Uh…I can't say. Bobby's working on his script, as you might call it, and then we'll see."

"Sam…"

"I know, I know, we're working on it as fast as we can, okay?"

Dean nodded and ran a tired hand over his face, puffing out a heavy sigh. He looked so fragile in this very moment, Sam was about to wrap him into a carpet and carry him out.

"I think there's a demon in here", Dean suddenly blurted out, holding Sam's gaze as not to miss his little brother's reaction, "he knows me, knows where I've been."

An electrical jolt ran through Sam. So that was all the caution about. How the hell did those black-eyed assholes always seem to know where to find them? They had charms, they even had an angel hovering over their heads...well, Dean had, at least..and still they couldn't get rid of that fiendish mob.

"Where?" he growled, "Who?"

Dean shook his head, "No one you know. Another inmate, a kid. Gives me the evil eye every time I set foot in the cafeteria. Yesterday he talked to me, said something about that it's a good thing that I'm here and all the people in hell can rest. That up here they can take vengeance for them."

Sam frowned, considered what he had just heard.

"Did you see his eyes?" he asked.

"What?"

"His eyes. Where they black?"

Dean pulled his head back. "What, you don't believe me? You think I can't smell those suckers a mile off?"

Sighing, Sam held up a placating hand, "That's not what I mean. It's just...why would a demon say something like that? This makes no sense."

"Whatever", Dean shrugged, "One thing's for sure, I can't kill him, not in here. I could try an exorcism, but I don't think I could finish it."

"Could you talk to him in private? Snatch him and tie him to your bedpost so you have the time to exorcise him?"

The expression on Dean's face screamed 'You must be joking' into Sam's direction. "With what, Sam? Dust bunnies? You noticed that I don't even own shoe laces, how am I suppose to tie the son of bitch anywhere?"

Sam nodded, racking his brain. "What about safety arrangements? Keep the thing off?"

"First, how do I lay my hands on salt, holy water, chalk or paint? And secondly, the moment I draw salt lines around my cot or doodle sigils on my cell floor they're going to think I'm crazy."

"They already do, remember?"

"Shut up."

The brothers lapsed into silence. Dean was right, if he'd adopt all the measures to keep him demon-safe they sure as hell would fine-tune him on all the colorful drugs they had in their arsenal. On the other hand, he had nothing to lose, right?

"I'm going to keep my eyes open", Sam finally said, not sure how he was supposed to do so, but certain to do his utmost to keep Dean safe, "you try to get the stuff you need and make that cell of yours demon proof. Ask that male nurse, what was his name? Phillip? I'm sure he'll get you what you need. It doesn't matter if they think you've lost your marbles, you're out of here in less then a week, driving the Impala and killing baddies." He searched for any reaction to that promising outlook on Dean's face, slightly disappointed when all he got was a nod.

"Yeah, okay", his brother replied, a slight trace of resignation resonating in his tone. Sam wanted to yank his brother up at his collar, wanted to shake him, wanted to yell at him in his best John Winchester fashion to men-the-fuck-up, to kick that demon's ass like he had been taught, like he always had.

Like he had before he had died and been dragged to hell.

"Dean?" Sam began, not willing to leave this room without talking about the incident yesterday, needing to hear what had freaked his brother out. "Anything else bothering you?" Soft line approach. Sometimes it worked.

Dean met his gaze, and for a tiny second Sam was sure his brother would spill his guts.

"No...well, maybe. Listen…uh…", Dean cleared his throat, "I need you to do some research for me, can you do that?"

Once again Sam frowned. "What for?"

"You know the old train station? I think we passed it when we came here. I think there's something going on there, a vengeful spirit maybe."

Okay, maybe no gut spilling

"You think there's something going on there?" Sam repeated in disbelief, almost barking out a laugh. Let it be up to his big pig-headed brother to save the earth while he himself was rotting in a mental facility.

"It's Phillip", Dean continued unperturbed, "he moved in there yesterday and I'm 100 per cent sure he met something last night. From what he told me it sounds like a spirit, noises, cold spots... and I've never seen him that spooked before."

Sam could only gape at Dean. The jerk was kidding, right?

"Because you know each other so well", he teased, his incomprehension over Dean's trains of thought letting his blood boil.

Dean paused and narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong, Sam?", he queried suspiciously, "Since when do we ignore it when other people's lives are at stake?"

"You know, sometimes our own lives are important, too", Sam spat back, but keeping the volume down, "and right now I don't quite care if there's some spirit up to trouble somewhere, don't you think we got other problems right now?"

"I know very well what kind of problems we have right now, believe me, I do."

"Oh yeah? Wanna share? Let's talk about those problems, shall we? How about: 'Doctor, doctor, I see things in windows that freak me out that much I tend to turn into a pillar of salt. And then I lie straight into my brother's worried face about it, tell him there's nothing there.'"

So much for soft line approach.

Sam knew that was low, he knew he was pushing all the right buttons, all together with both hands. But right now he couldn't care less. He prepared himself for an inevitable blow that was sure to come when he watched all emotions drain from his brother's face, when the familiar green eyes turned into a vicious glare, when full lips slimmed to a thin line. The muscles in Dean's jaw jumped menacingly.

There would be no blow coming. Couldn't be, because Dean knew what was on the line. Pummeling on your shrink sure wasn't a very wise move right now.

"Are you going to help me or not?" Dean growled and it was so low, so threatening, it would have given Sam the creeps if he weren't so angry himself at the moment.

Sam held Dean's icy stare with and equally icy one. "Are you going to talk to me or not?" he asked. Also low. Also threatening.

It took another two seconds before Dean stood abruptly, pushing the chair backwards with the back of his knees with so much force it almost fell over. The screeching of the chair legs on the flor boomed through the hall-like room like thunder, causing the few other people to pause their talking, the soft murmurs that had accompanied them the whole time suddenly breaking off.

"Fine", Dean spoke up, his face a stony mask of anger.

They still stared at each other, Dean looking down on Sam now, _a rare thing_ the youngest Winchester thought stupidly. The orderly stepped up behind Dean, his posture showing clearly that he was ready for whatever was there to do, his eyes darting from him to his brother in a mixture of distrust and confusion.

"Everything alright? You have still 10 minutes left..." he stated but was interrupted by his prisoner.

"We're done here, thanks", Dean assured him, a fake smile cracking his hardened features up when he turned to look at the sturdy man, fading again when his eyes met Sam's once more.

Sam wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want to let Dean go like this, didn't want to part with both of them sitting on huge explosive piles of things left unsaid. But he didn't want to cave in either, he wasn't Dean's geeky research boy, not anymore, and he didn't want to split his attention to a wild goose chase. Just because of a hunch. Just because some nurse working here, bringing Dean the pills, hadn't slept so well in his new bedroom.

He wanted Dean out of here. And he wanted to know what had bothered him so much yesterday. He just wanted him safe. Why couldn't the stubborn mule understand this?

Without saying another word Dean turned on his heels, the soles of his shoes squealing on the linoleum, and headed for the exit. The orderly followed him, hesitantly at first, shooting a questioning look at Sam before he caught up with his brother, guiding him through the double doors.

Sam watched them disappear, his bottom lip a mangled mess after chewing on it in frustration. He slammed his flat hand onto the table with a gritted "Damnit!" before he ran now tingling fingers through his hair. He bit back the furious 'What?' he wanted to dash into the other people's faces who still stared at him in irritation and curiosity and decided to just smile at them, a pained one, but a smile nonetheless.

* * *

Dean was fuming. There was such a huge hurricane of rage and disappointment whirling inside of him, he wanted to punch holes into the walls, big ones, so deep that he'd be able to see what's on the other side. Or maybe break another orderly's nose while he was at it, imagine it was Sam's.

What the hell was wrong with that asshole? He hadn't asked for something impossible, had he? He hadn't ordered an african elephant playing an ukulele, hadn't asked for a giant flat-screen TV. One hour, maybe two in front of the laptop Sam occupied every night and day anyway was all he had asked for. A simple name, a simple story, a bit of research, only the affirmation of his assumption, it was everything Dean needed.

So Sam was cranky, alright. Had his panties in a twist because Dean hadn't spilled his guts out, hadn't curled up in mother Sammy's lap to whine and cry about the bad bad visions that haunted him since he was in here.

What a girl.

"Rodgers!" the orderly beside him cried, puffing and blowing , "Would you ease the hell up? This is no marathon..."

"You can take a break", Dean replied, the amusement of the orderly's bad shape halting his inner rant, "I know the way."

"Hilarious, man!"

Turning into the hallway where Dean's cell was located, the Winchester gasped in surprise when he rounded the corner and collided with another man, dressed in white, obviously in a hurry.

"Jesus, Phillip!" Dean exclaimed, recognizing the person immediately.

"This ain't no highway, people", the orderly muttered more to himself and dropped against the wall, shaking his head. Dean ignored him. His attention was on the nurse, who was clearly shaken.

"Phil? What's wrong?" he asked slowly. Alarmed. Phillip just looked at him, big eyed, mouth opening and closing before he tried to pass the Winchester.

"I need to go", he said harshly, walking on. Dean didn't hesitate and grabbed the other man's upper arm, gingerly but determined.

"Phillip, what is it?" He had the feeling he already knew.

Phillip let out a shaky sigh. "My wife's in hospital...I need to go there..."

"What happened?"

"She she fell down the stairs in our new house...well, she said someone pushed her but I don't think..."

"Who?"

"Who what?"

"Did she tell you who pushed her?"

Phillip gaped at Dean, pulling his head back. "A man", he answered irritated before he shook his head and waved a dismissively hand, "whatever, I don't think she was very accountable when she called, they gave her some heavy drugs, there's no one in our house, can't be..."

Dean's eyes darted over to the orderly who watched them from his position on the wall. He then walked a few steps away, pulling Phillip with him, whose weak protest he simply ignored.

"Dean, I have to go..."

"Listen to me, and listen to me good", Dean interrupted him, hoping his expression and tone was enough to convey the urgency of what he was about to say. When Phillip went absolutely silent and held his gaze, Dean took a deep breath.

"Okay, this is going to sound absolutely insane, but it's going to save your life, okay?"

Phillip just stared back at him, raising an eyebrow.

"You shouldn't go back into your house, it's dangerous..."

The nurse shook his head vigorously, "That's ridiculous, Dean..."

"Shut up and listen! If you need to go back in there make sure you have salt with you, and I mean a lot, a huge bag of it under your arm and a salt shaker in your pocket, you need to carry that one with you all the time. If someone turns up who's not supposed to turn up, you make a circle on the ground, big enough for you to stand inside of it. If you're in the bedroom and the thing's in the living room, you make a salt line at the threshold..."

"Thing? Dean, I don't..."

"Listen! Carry something made of iron with you, like, fire irons or a crow bar. If someone turns up you can defend yourself with it..."

"I have a gun in my car..."

"Forget the gun, use the iron. And the salt shaker. And don't feel safe when it's gone, it'll be back, sooner then you think, so you make a run for it the second it disappears..."

"Dean..."

"Phillip, please. I don't know if you trust me or not, but please, this is important. Trust me with this."

The nurse looked at him, thinking, assessing, and Dean could see he was biting on his bottom lip, hoped it was a sign that he indeed considered to trust his patient. When Phillip looked away, over to the orderly, Dean's panic spiked again and he was about to plea, to beg Phillip to stay away from the house, for God's sake.

"Parker, you got a crow bar in your car?"

Dean was sure his knees would give way, the relief making him almost queasy.

"Sure", Parker replied, "brand new one!"

Phillip nodded and looked back at Dean again. "I don't know what this is about", he said in a low voice, "but I trust you with this. I don't know why, but I trust you."

Dean nodded, a grateful smile on his face, "Thanks. And be careful, you hear? Careful."

With that Phillip started to jog away, "Parker, get Dean into his cell and let's meet at the entrance in five minutes!" he ordered before he vanished behind another corner, the squealing of his shoes fading.

Dean watched him go, once again ignoring Parker's muttering.

He had done everything he could, right? He had told Phillip how to defend himself against a ghost, if it were a ghost they were dealing with. Phillip was dealing with. There was nothing else he could do as long as he was in here.

Phil was on his own. But he could handle this.

So why was Dean unable to calm down?

* * *

_To be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

_Hi everyone! Next round. I'm curious what you think! I hope you won't get confused with all the italics and stuff...but then, it would be fitting to the plot, right? Aren't we all a tad messed up?_

_Warnings: slight, but really only slight adult content – use of the F-word plus a few curses and swearings – some gory details from hell  
_

* * *

**Chapter 10**

* * *

Sam closed his eyes, tried to relax, to let himself fall. He concentrated on her touch, the path of tender fingertips caressing his bare chest, not sure if the goosebumps were the result of her nails digging into his skin or the chill of the room.

He had wanted to send her away the moment she had appeared. The way she had suddenly leaned against the door jamb had annoyed him, with her arms crossed, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and lust while he had paced the small space from the beds over to the bathroom door, back and forth, brooding, grouching and tearing his hair.

The argument he had had with Dean still bothered him, he still needed some time to think. Sam's mood had screamed 'Do Not Disturb!' loud and clear. But sometimes Ruby seemed to feel that she was needed, even if the person needing her didn't know it himself.

And so Sam had given in, had decided to take the break he damn well deserved after being there for Dean night and day to find a way out of their_, his_ mess. He had used his anger and frustration to fix the dents in his self-confidence, had gained the mastery over Ruby underneath him, knowing that she wouldn't mind, would even welcome the slight brutality and aggression between them.

She hadn't asked when he had looked at her with a heated glare, hadn't flinched when he had walked up to her in forceful strides, hadn't pulled back when he had roughly grabbed her at the back of her neck and had pulled her close almost violently, covering her mouth with his in a hard and unyielding kiss.

There had been no tenderness, no softness, just pure instinct and the need for satisfaction, the simple release of pent up rage, leaving Sam hollow and tired.

"What's going on with you?" Ruby purred beside him, her cheek resting on his collarbone, the rest of her body snuggled closely to his side, her soft skin warming him.

Sam almost flinched at her voice, his concentration still clinging to her touch, tracking her fingers running along his throat and sternum, the prickling feeling pushing him closer to the boarder of sleep and waking.

"Nothing you need to worry about", Sam answered hoarsely, craning his neck to make out the position of his cell phone. He had no clue what time it was. How long was he lying here with Ruby, one hour? Two?

"It's Dean, right? Come on, Sam, I know you and you only tend to get like this when you're angry. Don't get me wrong, I love it when you're angry, especially..."

"Yeah, sorry about that..."

"Nothing to be sorry for." She leaned closer and he felt her tongue trace along his throat, warm and wet, up to his earlobe.

"Don't", Sam interrupted her, suddenly feeling oddly cramped. He pulled his head away and took her hand, halting her stroking, needing the contact but also needing her to stop. "It's nothing, okay?" Letting go of her, he pushed himself into a sitting position, his eyes roaming the room for his clothes.

"Okay then", he heard Ruby mutter, noticed the pull of the blankets when she tried to cover herself with it.

Sam stood, snatched his pants from where they lay in a heap on the carpet and slipped them on. He felt her eyes on him, as if she had the ability to look inside of him. Wasn't that girl a ridiculously curious demon?

"Listen, I need you to do me a favor", Sam stated, turning to face her.

There was a flicker of defiance on her features before she tilted her head with interest.

"Shoot."

"Dean says there are demons after him..."

"Down there in the looney bin?"

"Yeah. Can you find out what kind of demons they are and how many?"

"I haven't heard of any actions against your brother..."

"All the better. I want you to check it anyway. I can't protect him from here and I want to know what we're dealing with..."

"Don't you think Dean can take care of himself? I mean, he's a big boy."

"Yes...no...not as long as he's in there, he has no weapons, nothing to protect himself. And I don't think..." Sam stopped, not sure if this was something for Ruby to hear. Was it really necessary to throw tinder into the embers that were Ruby's cynicism against Dean?

"You don't think what?"

He let out an exhausted sigh. "I think there's something else. No, I know there's something else, but he ain't telling me. And I'm worried it's distracting him too much, he might have his guard down." _In addition to saving his nurse_, Sam thought, a new surge of incomprehension washing over him.

Ruby sat up, and Sam had to swallow when the blanket slid down, revealing her bare breasts. Speaking of distraction.

"I'm going to keep my ears open", she stated and smiled at him. That hungry, cunning smile he had learned to love and to hate equally. "In the meantime I can offer something to make sure you can protect Dean when it comes to the point." She conjured up a knife from out of nowhere and watched him challengingly.

Again Sam wanted to refuse. It was getting late, he had work to do. And he needed a clear head.

On the other hand he felt the telltale signs of his body starving, his strength waning. The prospect of power, accompanied by the thrill rushing through him every time it got what it needed so badly was enough to numb reason, to blind him for everything else.

Sam smiled as he approached her.

* * *

When Dean's eyes shot open, he instinctively knew something was off.

The cell was still dark, the only light creeping in being the bluish nightlight from the hallway. It was silent, the building lacking the normal bustling that dominated the daylight hours.

It crossed Dean's mind that he had never before woken up in the middle of the night since he was here, the heavy drugs always having pulled him into a deep, albeit not peaceful slumber and holding him there until the morning broke.

So why had he woken up, obviously very prior to the official wake-up call?

Dean groaned tiredly and rolled onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes of falling asleep again. The deadly silence unnerved him, his hunter senses picking up every sound, however tiny it may be, threatening to kick-start the roundabout of thoughts in his brain and therefore trampling his last chance of a good night's sleep.

It had taken him longer to succumb last night, hell, if it hadn't been for the pills he wouldn't even have thought about sleeping at all. He was out of his mind with worry for Phillip. Since the nurse had left the hospital in the afternoon Dean hadn't heard anything.

Maybe he should see the bright side. No news probably meant no bad news. If something bad had happened, there surely would be talking.

So Dean tried to relax. There was nothing he could do, right?

He concentrated on his breathing, tried to drown out the small moans of the pipes, the far-away whirr of the air conditioning and already felt the arms of sleep embracing him when he heard someone breathing.

Right beside his face.

His own breath hitching in his chest, Dean tore his eyes open and looked straight into light blue ones, glassy, almost glowing in the dark.

_Dean._

A voice he knew, had heard over and over, had heard begging, screaming, howling for hours, days, weeks.

"Mike…" Dean rasped shakily, his muscles tensing, his mind screaming at him to get up, to move, to do anything but laying there like a stranded whale, but his body refusing to react.

_Yeah. You remember me. Seems like I should feel flattered,_ the other man replied calmly, the crooked smile gracing his features widening. He stood, turned and walked up to the cell door, looking out through the window.

Dean shook himself out of his reverie and scrambled slowly into a sitting position, his gaze glued to Mike's back. He looked exactly like Dean remembered him, the way his suit was torn and ragged, his skin sweaty and dirty, blood everywhere.

Okay, so this wasn't real. He was dreaming. Mike wasn't here. Couldn't be. There was no way. Wake up, Dean.

_Nice room you have here. So dark and cool. Tell me, how does it feel to be captured like this?_

"You're not real", Dean growled, surprisingly collected now, "You can skip the tune and fuck off right now."

Mike barked out a laugh and turned, hands behind his back. _Saying I'm not real_, _does it make a difference?_

In the blink of an eye he changed his position, was suddenly face to face with Dean once more, causing the Winchester to gasp and recoil so abruptly that the back of his head crashed into the wall with a sickening crunch. Dean cried out in pain, his vision turning into a star-spattered sky.

_Even if I'm not real here and now, I was real down there, Dean_, Mike hissed, and through his haze Dean noticed a rain of spittle slamming into his face, _And you wanna know something funny? I'M STILL DOWN THERE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!_

The last part was a thunderstorm, Mike's voice booming, erupting from all directions in Dolby Surround, echoing from the cell walls, every syllable cutting into Dean like pieces of shattered glass. His ears felt as if someone was ramming a hot poker deep inside from both sides, his skin prickled like being pulled too taut over sensitive flesh.

Stifling a scream, Dean moaned and yanked his hands up, tried to cover his ears in vain.

_You know, I've always been quite the God-fearing person_, Mike stated in a cold whisper, his lips only mere inches from Dean's forehead as if preparing to plant a kiss upon it, _not the upright churchgoer, though, but I believed and I prayed, I prayed a lot. I prayed even more when I came down there, burning in the fires of hell, getting my ass kicked over and over and over again by every shitty demon that came by and needed to blow off steam_.

Dean blinked frantically, his fingernails digging into his skull in an attempt to seal his ears from the painful revelations he didn't want to hear. Never wanted to hear. Never wanted to be reminded of ever again.

_And then you came. And my prayers became louder. More frequent. Because compared to you all the demons before you with their games and techniques and tools were like kittens playing with a ball of wool. So I screamed my prayers, I begged and pleaded while you enjoyed destroying me, killed what was left of my human soul._

"I had no choice", Dean grunted, head and back pressed against the wall, "You know that...you met Alistair, too..."

_Yeah, sure, I met him. I have a few scars courtesy of him. And you should be glad that he never offered me what he offered you, Dean._

"Come on", Dean huffed out in feigned sarcasm, hoping to appear a lot more callous then he actually felt, "This is ridiculous..." Wakeupwakeupwakeup, damnit.

_Do you wanna know when I stopped praying? Huh? What do you think?_

Mike shifted and sat back on his haunches, tilted his head and locked eyes with him, a cold stare crawling right into Dean's orbits and seeming to convert him slowly to ice, starting with his insides.

_The moment I overheard that an angel has pulled you out. Do you know what this meant for me, Dean? An angel? A heavenly creature, serving my lord, the God I was praying to, pulls you out, saves you, after all you've done to me? To all of us down there?_

"Mike..."

_But you know what's worse?_ He leaned close, their noses almost touching. _When you were gone I, all of us, cried in relief, we thought it was finally over. It was before we noticed that Alistair's__other minions had learned from you, had watched you and were all too eager to follow in your footsteps._

Every muscle, every fiber in Dean's body froze. The put-on mask of casualness softened, melted into a grimace of shock and disbelief.

"You're lying", he whispered and shook his head, hissing when the movement sent spikes of pain up his skull.

Mike raised his eyebrows, his expression full of fake pity. _Why would I lie to you, huh, Dean?_

"No", the Winchester choked out, throat constricting.

_I can show you_, Mike whispered and before Dean was able to draw back he laid his hands over Dean's which still covered his ears.

He knew the flashes of images that assaulted him. He knew the black and red and brownish colors, the smell of burning flesh and hair, the sounds of bones breaking, people screaming, of limbs being torn apart.

Dean knew it because he was the cause.

The faces were familiar, some more, others less. There were people he remembered because they had been beautiful once, still were before he lay hands on them. People he remembered because he had spent weeks, months, years beside them secured on that abhorrent rack, before he had changed sides, had sold his soul to the devil a second time.

He felt the heat of the fire, the warmth of their blood running down his hands and arms, heard their cries.

_Please._

He saw himself standing amidst piles of flesh, bare chest rising and falling in violent pants of exertion, gleaming with sweat and blood, sparkling green eyes hungry.

_Please...oh God..._

The blade was heavy, but the hilt fit into his fist as if made especially for him.

_Please..._

'Stop pleading.' A command. An order, resounding from the black rocks around him. The screams grew louder, the piles of flesh moved, quivered.

_Please…I…_

_I said, stop pleading._

The images vanished, the air grew ice cold, the smell turned into a slightly sterile odor.

Dean couldn't keep himself upright and felt himself tilt to the side, his mind jumbled and numb, unable to discern where he was. Which place? What time? Somewhere in his brain he registered that his back slid along something cold and unyielding while he fell, a wall? The bedhead? Was he in a motel?

Sam?

He even noticed his own surprise over the fact that he came to a halt on something fairly soft, his head sinking into what felt like a pillow, his left side resting on a mattress.

Dean didn't know if his eyes were open or not, he couldn't see. He couldn't hear, the rushing in his head being the only noise he could make out.

Before he heard a voice. He knew the voice. He knew the black and red and brownish colors the voice had, the smell of it's burning flesh and hair, the sounds of it's bones breaking, it's screaming, it's limbs being torn apart.

_See?_ it hissed into his ear, _Whatever's happening to you up here, however bad you feel? It's nothing like what we had and have to endure in the pit, thanks to you._

A small tear rolled over the bridge of Dean's nose, following gravity, ending up in the soft fabric of the pillowcase. In a tiny second of lucidity Dean wanted nothing more then to follow suit, wanted to melt away, to just go, like that tear.

He felt more of them on his face, tracked their path mentally until he couldn't feel no more.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11

_Hey everyone, it's Sunday again! Thank you so much for all those awesome reviews, I'm such a happy person right now!_

_Okay then, on with the story – this is one of my favourite chapters, I'm curious what you think! Enjoy... _

* * *

**Chapter 11**

* * *

Staring at the black liquid had a mesmerizing effect, it was exactly what Dean needed to keep him from losing his mind completely. Plus, he wouldn't accidently meet the demon's gaze while looking around in the dining hall, searching for hallucinations longing for revenge. No, watching the steaming coffee in his cup worked fine for him right here and now.

It had felt so real. So damn real. The nauseating stench was still an uninvited guest in his nose, the persistent odor of death and blood and sweat enough to display the corresponding images before his inner eye. The pounding headache that threatened to drive him crazy since he had opened his eyes this morning was an additional reminder of how vicious that last dream had been.

Had it been a dream? Was it even possible for a dream to be so intense, so violent? Man, what a feral subconscious he had.

Dean took an angry sip of the hot coffee, keeping his eyes trained to an imaginary spot on the table top.

They were still down there. All of them. Never once had Dean thought about all the souls that had stayed, the ones he had tortured, the ones he hadn't, it didn't matter, right? They all had to endure the worst, the most outrageous things possible. Things a human mind shouldn't be able to think of ever. They had to endure all that, not once, not twice, but for the rest of eternity.

Alistair had trained him. And he had trained the demons. Unknowingly. And now it didn't matter anymore if he was down there or up here, the harm was done.

No wonder visions were haunting him. No wonder some demon was walking around here, threatening him. He was a monster. He might have shed that skin when he came back, but he couldn't erase what was etched on his memory.

Dean was ripped from his thoughts when the chair opposite him was yanked back forcefully and someone slumped down on it. He looked up, recognition and realization pushing his dread from the spotlight.

"Phillip…" he exhaled, a massive weight suddenly off his mind, when the nurse held his hand up and regarded him intently.

"Okay", Phillip began, looking around before he leaned close, "I want to know what's in my house. Now, Dean."

So much for the hunch.

Dean clenched his jaw. "Relax, I can explain…" But he was so damn not in the mood right now.

"Oh, I hope you can, because the only reason I'm not flipping out right here and now is because I pray to God that you have a rational answer to what is going on out there."

_I prayed, I prayed a lot. I prayed even more when I came down there..._

A tiny gasp escaped Dean before he could stop himself and he blinked frantically, fighting the urge to recoil from Phillip who frowned at him.

"Are you okay?" the nurse asked, the slightly exasperated tone softening instantly. He nodded at the coffee in Dean's white-knuckled hands. "Is that your breakfast?"

"Yeah…", Dean stammered, struggling to regain his composure, "I'm not hungry…" _Getafreakin'grip!_

"Dean…"

"Don't 'Dean' me, Phil, okay?" He ran a hand over his face, hoping that it didn't shake too hard. Focus. He needed to focus. A hunt. This is a hunt. Focus, Dean. "You wanna know what's going on? Fine, I'll tell you but you're not going to like it."

"Fine."

"Fine." Dean took a shaky breath. "From the beginning. What exactly happened?"

"Okay, so I went back into my house", Phillip started, "I had the crowbar and I had salt and everything with me. I went upstairs to get a few things for Coraline…my wife…and when I wanted to leave there was this guy in the middle of my living room."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing. He just stood there and watched me. At first. When I walked up to him, asked him who he was and what the heck he was doing in my house he suddenly…man, you should've seen it…he didn't walk, he kinda…flew at me. Like Michael Jackson's moonwalk, you know, but…onward."

Dean gaped blankly at the man opposite him. Funny comparison, actually. In all his years hunting those things he hadn't ever thought about calling their sneaky attacks that way.

"What happened next?" he asked, erasing the disturbing image from his mind.

Phillip paused for a second. "I threw the crowbar at him", he said. "And he…disappeared. Into thin air."

Dean could once again only stare at Phillip. "Okay, number one", he stated, "you never throw your weapon away. Never. Next time, you hold onto the crowbar, alright?"

"Yeah, thanks for the advice", Phillip replied defiantly, "I knew throwing the thing away might not have been the smartest idea, but you know, normally when you throw a crowbar at someone's head that someone goes down and needs some time to wake up again."

Dean felt his racing heart slow down, felt himself being oddly at home. It was like catching a familiar scent from childhood days, like discovering a place similar to another one from the past, associated with pleasant memories.

Ghosts. Those he could handle. It was like the good old days. Sam and him, salting and burning. No demons. No angels. No experiences in torture.

"When did it reappear?" Dean rasped, his voice surprisingly rough and feeble.

Phillip pulled his head back. "How do you know it reappeared?"

"Sixth sense", Dean shrugged and nodded curtly, "Go on."

"Uh-huh…well…about 30 seconds later he…it…whatever…it was back, all vibrant and pissed and I…" Once again Phillip paused, licked his lips and shook his head barely visibly, almost spacing out.

"You've sprinkled him with salt I hope", Dean pressed, eyebrows raised, ducking his head.

"Yeah. And he vanished. Again." Phillip locked eyes with Dean, leaned closer a few inches more. "Dean. Why do I have David Copperfield's grandfather in my house?"

And damn, if the situation wouldn't be so fucked up Dean would have burst out in laughter right now.

"Did you recognize the man?" he asked instead, seriousness and urgency palpable in his voice and expression, "Have you seen him before, on photos maybe? When you bought the station did you read anything about a case of death sometime in the past?"

"No…I don't remember…Dean, crap, what's going on?"

Slumping his shoulders Dean checked the other tables once more, made sure there was no one close enough to hear what he was going to say now.

"You don't happen to believe in ghosts, do you?" he asked bluntly, not surprised when the only answer he got was a tired blink. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Phillip looked him in the eyes, his face blank, lacking any emotion. He stared at him for such a long moment, Dean was about to nudge the guy, fearing he might have fallen asleep with his eyes open.

"You mean…a ghost…like…Patrick Swayze, right?" Phillip then asked slowly, "That guy in my house is a ghost? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Dean presented him an uncertain smile. "Welcome to the real world." He could see the information sink in, could almost hear the other man's brain rattle and screech while it processed what it just was fed with.

"Why? Why is it here?" Phillip whispered, and he sounded so small Dean felt a tiny twinge of pity, "What did I do to…what did Coraline do that he's pushed her down the stairs?"

"You live in his house, I guess..."

"No", Phillip exclaimed disgustedly, "He lives in mine." He shook his head, eyes roaming the small space between them. "This is ridiculous. You know what? If I wouldn't have seen it with my own eyes I'd run to Salinger right now and beg him to put you into a straightjacket."

"Ghosts haunt places that were important to them when they were alive", Dean explained undeterred by Phillip's comment, "like, for example, the houses they've lived in or special places of emotional significance to them. They're not necessarily evil or angry – well, most of them are, but not because they are sadistic or bored. There might be some unfinished business that keeps him here, or maybe he's just unwilling to move on."

Phillip looked up at Dean. "How is it that I'm the only one freaking out here? I mean, how did you know…well…you obviously knew what was going on before I did…the salt…iron…"

"I know a few things", Dean shrugged.

"Okay, fine, so I'm sure you know how to get rid of it?"

"That's the fun part…"

"Come on, can we talk to it? Tell it to man up or…ghost up…whatever, shoo it out of the windows?"

This time Dean couldn't help but snort at the truly refreshing naivety the male nurse displayed. He'd love to make himself comfortable on the sofa while Phillip ran after their Ghost waggling a newspaper or a flyswatter at it, all windows wide open.

"We need to know who he is, Phil. We need to know where he's buried, if he's buried."

Phillip frowned. "Somehow I don't think I want you to keep on talking…"

"Well, it's not me who has to live with a Ghost under his rug."

"Yeah. Thanks. Fine. So, why do we have to know where it's buried?"

Here we go, Dean thought, letting out a sigh. "You need to burn the corpse."

A while ago he wouldn't have thought that it was possible to express bewilderment and astonishment in so many different ways. But one look at Phillips face told him that he was wrong.

"Burn the corpse", the other man repeated flatly, watching Dean as if to search for any evidence on his face that he had made a joke. Then his eyes widened. "Wait. _I_ have to burn the corpse?"

"Well, I'd love to help but I'm stuck in here, remember?"

"No way. Nuh-uh. How am I supposed to...I can't burn a damn corpse...you're kidding, right? I mean, it's a body, a person, I can't..." Phillip stopped and tilted his head. "What about that Ghost? Huh? He's not going to like it when he catches me scorching his remains, he's going to rip me apart!"

"He's going to rip you apart anyway, he'll be there in your house for the rest of your life. And trust me, this won't be long with him around."

The two men fell silent. From the way Phillip looked down, swallowed and clenched his jaw Dean was sure the man was close to tears right now. And he couldn't blame him. Dean had just unhinged his world, had told him things most people in the world knew only from the movies and were fine with it.

But at least the nurse seemed to trust him. He didn't bring Dean's words and theories into question, didn't greet them with smiles, didn't threat to ramp up his medication, thanks to Phillips own experience with the supernatural stumbling block.

Sam would have been a great help here. Dean would have given Phil his brother's number or would have arranged a meeting, something, anything. Sam could have taken more time and explain the situation without ruffle or excitement, could have done the necessary research with Phillip together. He could have driven out to the grave, if there was one, and could have get the job done, without pushing Phillip into the line of fire, without too many questions.

Hell, maybe Phillip wouldn't have had to learn about Ghosts at all in the first place if Sam wouldn't have been so stubborn and refusing.

Movement in the corner caught Dean's attention and he looked up, recognizing Griffin who had brought him here earlier hovering at the door. The bulky man then approached their table with raised eyebrows.

"Phillip", Dean hissed, satisfied to see some kind of determination in the other man's eyes, "find out who he is, where he's buried. If you need to enter your house, be prepared."

"Gentlemen!" Griffin piped when he finally reached the table, "Sorry to disturb the spirited conversation but I'm going to accompany Mister Rodgers here into the recreation room now."

Dean didn't know what was more disturbing – that dumbass breathing his air or the part concerning the recreation room.

"Wait, what? Recreation room?" he asked in disbelief, eyes darting over to Phillip who looked as surprised as him.

"Is there an appointment or since when do we force our patients to go there?" Phillip asked, suddenly all professional again, any signs of anxiety blown away in the blink of an eye.

"Doctor Salinger's advice. He thinks it might be good and important for Dean to do something constructive."

"That's cute, really", Dean chimed in, "how about you lend me a file or a picklock and I show the good doc how constructive I can get with the cell doors."

"I could give you a spoon so you can dig your way out of here, how does that sound, Rodgers?"

"Guys!" Phillip interrupted the heated discussion, once again acting as a buffer between the two hotheads, "That's enough for now. Dean, I think Salinger's idea isn't that bad

"Come on…" Dean whined but stopped when Phillip raised a placating hand.

"Let's do what we have to do, shall we, Dean?" he said in a low tone, giving Dean a meaningful look.

The two men locked gazes for a moment. "Okay", Dean answered slowly and nodded, "right." He then got up reluctantly, presenting Griffin a mocking grin.

"Well then, big guy", Dean teased, "let's get creative."

"To see you crochet a beanie is going to make my day", the orderly teased and nudged Dean's shoulder, "Move it, sweetheart."

* * *

_To be continued…_


	12. Chapter 12

_Hmmm, Sunday again. I'm curious what you think about this one...enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 12**

* * *

"Seriously?"

Slumping down onto the mattress with the same agility a sack of potatoes would offer Sam tightened the grip on his phone.

"_I'm sorry, kid. I tried the best impersonation of a bigwig I could come up with. The guy didn't budge a damn single inch."_

"But what did he say? I mean, even Salinger has to have a superior of some kind, I don't know, someone who has more to say then he has."

"_He owns that facility, Sam."_

"So what? Does this make him God or something? Doctor Almighty?"

"_Listen…"_

"No, I'm done listening, Bobby!" Biting his tongue Sam ran a hand through his hair. Damnit, there he sat, bitching at the only help he got in this mess.

Bobby was silent.

"Sorry…I'm sorry", Sam apologized, trying to steer his voice into a friendlier direction, "It's just…I don't have another plan. I don't know how to get him out of there. Those doctors? They're tearing Dean's life to pieces…and mine with it. I'm so done listening to their insights on what might be the best way to approach Dean because I know that every damn clue they come up with is crap."

"_It's okay, Sam", _the other man replied, _"What about your brother? How does he handle those sessions?"_

"He doesn't. Actually I'm having my hands full stalling those meetings because I know they won't go well. The first one was an almost disaster and I don't know how he's going to behave in a second one."

"_That's thin ice you're strolling on. How long do you think this will gonna work? Sooner or later they're going to get suspicious if you keep warding off those conversations. And once they find out who you are or rather who you're not it's going to get real hairy, for both of you."_

"I know that, Bobby."

Sam sighed. If Bobby only knew how close he already was to the boarder of trust and suspicion. For the last week Sam had done everything to avoid another session. Had lied about Dean's condition, had told Salinger and Rosenbaum that his patient wasn't up to another meeting yet. He had made up dozens of reasons to postpone those therapeutical conversations due to incomplete research and reports. So yes, he knew how thin that ice was, he heard it crack already.

But he knew what talking about his family, talking about his past did to Dean. And he knew that the aggressive reaction in their first meeting was just the tip of the iceberg. What lay beneath the surface was enough to get Dean kicked into solitary for the rest of his life, straightjacket included.

And Sam knew that there was no other way then to reveal bits and pieces of Dean's – their – real life. You couldn't fake a life career, talk about it nonchalantly while sitting under a magnifying glass of a shrink. That was just impossible.

But to tell the truth was even more ridiculous.

"_Sam? You still there?"_

The Winchester blinked and inhaled forcefully. He had almost forgotten that Bobby was still on the line.

"Yeah…I'm still here."

"_How's Dean doing anyway?"_

"I'm not sure", Sam shrugged, "We haven't been talking since yesterday afternoon."

"_What, they don't let you talk to him? You're his…psychiatrist_." Sam could almost hear Bobby wince at his own words.

"No, it's not like that…we had an argument. I don't think he wants to see me right now, and to be honest, I'm not sure if I want to, either."

"_What the hell are you talking about? Are you out of your damn minds, you two?"_

"Bobby…"

"_Oh, I understand."_ And if the change in Bobby's tone wasn't an audible alarm – so nice, friendly and soothing all of a sudden? Never a good sign. _"Dean might be a bit strung up at the moment, a bit touchy and let me guess, he snapped at you. I'm sure you feel the same, strung up, touchy, all that stuff, and I bet you snapped at him in return. But you know what, you're supposed to stick together, to support each other, you stubborn jerks. Right now, Dean needs you, you're the only one he has while he's stuck in that nuthouse. So how about you two pull yourselves together and live in harmony, at least until this mess is cleaned up?"_

Sam clenched his jaw. He wanted to yell at Bobby, tell him that he did support Dean, up to the point of exhaustion, he wanted to rant about his brother's stupid order of priorities, about Dean's crazy kink to save everybody else but himself, felt the urge to holler his frustration out to the man who wasn't here, hadn't seen how willing he was to be there for his sibling.

"I'm going to look for other options", he stated instead, calmly, almost icy, the small sulky boy in him striving against continuing the conversation.

"_I'm not done with Salinger, not yet, Sam",_ Bobby reassured in a slightly softened voice, _"You boys are not alone in this."_

"Thanks, Bobby."

Sam hung up and stared at his cell for a while longer before he dropped it next to him.

He had an appointment with Salinger and Rosenbaum tomorrow. And he knew after that there was no way to avoid the second session, not anymore.

He needed to talk to Dean, prepare him, construct a plan of action. Maybe it would be a good thing to restore peace between them before they would go back into the lion's den.

* * *

Modeling clay.

Seriously.

How old was he, three?

Dean shook his head and regretted it immediately when a jolt of pain flashed trough it, his skull's impact with the wall behind him last night apparently having been harder then he had thought. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, instantly annoyed by the sweetish smell and the sticky feeling greeting him. He yanked them away and rubbed them together, trying to get rid of the greasy film and the colorful remains under his fingernails.

They got to be kidding him.

There was no way he would ever set a foot in that room again, and the moment anyone came up to him suggesting he should create something out of modeling clay he swore he would knead a noose and strangle that person with it.

"Gah", he exclaimed in disgust, giving up the hopeless task of cleaning his hands without the proper facilities. He shifted on his cot and closed his burning eyes, tried to block out the brass band in his head.

He wasn't sure what had been worse. The fact that he was forced to sit there and actually play with that crap or the people around him and how they 'played' with it. There had been a tiny guy with tiny glasses and tiny fingers and he sure as hell had something going with the green mass he had been kneading and stroking and mumbling to during the whole time Dean had spent beside him.

Another guy had taken the idea of modeling clay being perfect for stress management literally and had thrown his lump through the room before stomping on it and calling it names even a sailor would have felt awkward hearing.

The elderly woman opposite Dean must have had spent the whole day in the recreation room forming flowers and blades of grass because she had sat in a sea of modeling clay vegetation, smiling dreamily. It had been an almost beautiful sight.

Dean had refused to even touch anything, had settled for brooding and watching the others. He had searched for his friend the demon but there had been no sign of him. It was odd, he hadn't seen the kid for days now. Maybe he was gone? Maybe the demon had possessed another poor son of a bitch and the kid was lying in a cell somewhere?

That would it make hard for Dean to find out who the new meatsuit was. Could be anyone. Crap.

The therapist, always smiling, always beaming, always the patience itself had approached Dean a while after he had been sitting there with crossed arms, had tried to prompt him to create something nice, maybe an elephant or a bird.

After Dean had told her where she could stick her rainbow-colored clay the ever-present smile and beaming and patience hadn't vanished, but had turned so ice cold it had been creepy.

So nurse Ratchet wasn't fiction at all.

Still, when the orderlies had threatened him and even the happy therapist had announced drastic measures Dean had decided to humor them and had snatched the only piece of black modeling clay, kneading a small version of the Impala. He had no interest in meeting Salinger and his bloodhound, was in no mood for another session, even if he knew it would be inevitable. He knew that he had to thank Sam for stalling the meetings and conversations.

Sam. What was the guy doing anyway? Was he still working on a plan to get him out or had he decided to spend some undisturbed time with his demon chick?

The unfamiliar sound of a trolley or something else with wheels outside in the hallway caught Dean's attention. The sound stopped in front of his cell.

Slide. Beep. Click.

What was about to happen now, for Christ's sake?

Dean looked up, expecting the cleaning lady. He watched in mild surprise when Phillip slipped in, the routine pill tray in hand, looking as if someone was after him.

Dean opened his mouth to say something when the nurse beat him to it.

"What I'm going to do now will cost me my job when anybody gets wind of it", he stated, looking at Dean intently, "but I need to do this because I am a wuss and there's no other way." He put the tray on the small table, spilling half of the water in the process and raked his hair with shaky hands.

"Phil? What..."

"And I trust you. I hope I don't make a mistake here, but I have the feeling I can trust you."

Phillip was shaking like a leaf, the nervous fumbling with his hands and his gaze jumping through the room almost driving Dean bananas.

"Did you find something out concerning your stiff?" Dean asked slowly, trying to make his own voice sound calm and composed.

"Yeah, I know who he is and I know where he's buried and I have gasoline in my shed."

Dean was stunned. "Okay. Awesome. Why's the gasoline in your shed and not on the corpse by now?"

"Because I won't do this."

Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Phil, we went through this already..."

"You will."

That caught the Winchester by surprise and he stared at the other man in confusion before he huffed out a laugh. "Funny. Give me the lighter and show me where the gunpowder track is. I hope it's intact from here to the grave?"

"Dean, I'm serious." Phillip turned and checked the hallway through the cell window. He then walked up to Dean and sat down beside him. "Okay, so this is the plan. I have a laundry cart outside. It's big enough for you to hide in it..."

"Woah, wait a sec...this is..." Dean wasn't sure if maybe the work with the nutcases had rubbed off on Phillip, "Whatever you're suggesting, have you thought about it? I mean it's not only your job at hazard, you go to prison when someone finds out what you're doing here."

"Then we should make sure that no one finds out, right?" And suddenly there was the old Phillip shining through, a determined albeit uncertain smile on his lips.

Realization slammed into Dean with so much force he had to keep himself from barking out a triumphant laughter. This was it. His way out. His chance to get his brain as far away from Salinger and all his minions before they could lay their knotted claws further on him.

Hiding his enthusiasm Dean returned Phillip's smile with a soft shake of his head, "You're crazy. And you're right, you're a wuss."

"Shut up. Here...", the nurse pointed at the tray, "You won't take the sleeping pills tonight..."

"I figured as much..."

"...but I read in your chart that you had some Aspirin this morning, because of a headache? You still need something?"

For a second Dean hesitated. Looks as if he was about to hunt tonight and he had still no clue what they were dealing with, how aggressive their Ghost might be, if he would disturb them at all or let them burn his body without ruffle and excitement. Normally he wouldn't take anything while on a job but right now his head was killing him.

"Yeah", he answered, looking suspiciously at pills on the tray he had never seen before. "Those aren't Aspirin, are they?"

"No, they're stronger. They contain caffeine, they're boosting you a bit. Sometimes I need them when I'm in for double shifts."

Dean grabbed the two cream colored pills and turned them in between his fingers before he popped them into his mouth, followed by a sip from the water cup. Phillip took the redundant sleeping pills and dispersed them.

"The laundry cart has an opening at the side, when I open the cell door you can slip in without getting noticed. But we have to wait for the camera in the hallway to turn, just in case. And pile up your bedding, it has to look as if you are sleeping on the cot."

"You have salt in your shed, too?"

Phillip snorted. "You're joking, right? Now that I know what lives in my house I have salt practically everywhere. Even my underwear's scratching..."

"Phil", Dean yanked his hands up, "Too much information."

A voice over the loudspeakers announced the imminent procedure of the cell lights shutting off. Phillip took a deep breath and looked at Dean, obviously trying to stifle his jumpiness.

"Let's do this", he breathed and grabbed the emptied tray.

Dean watched the other man shake himself and walk out of the cell, placing the tray on top of the cart. He wasn't sure whether he should raise his non-existing hat to Phillip's wacky plan or knock him out to put the guy off doing this.

Yeah, it was possible, the whole 'Green Mile' idea. Phil was a highly esteemed nurse in this facility, so much Dean had got. No one would ever think he'd be capable of pulling a stunt like this. If someone could walk out of here with a laundry cart or a bunch of silver spoons under his shirt without being looked askant at, it was definitely him.

And with Dean handling and hopefully finishing this job Phillip wouldn't be endangered.

But it was also a venturous risk, smuggling a patient out of the building. And even if they'd make it out, would they make it in again without problems?

A twitch of conscience passed through Dean.

Would he go back, just like that?

The sound of a flat hand slapping metal ripped Dean from his musings – Phillip patting the top of the cart.

Showtime.

Dean closed the distance from his cot to the awaiting cart lightning-fast and gracefully, finding the opening in the fabric body easily and sneaking in like a shadow. He found himself face to face with a pile of light-blue bedlinen.

"Aw, come on", he cringed and bit back a few expletives, carefully pushing the dirty laundry as far away with his legs as he could.

"Sleep tight!" he heard Phillip say, "See you tomorrow morning, Dean!"

A grin lit up his face. Sly kid.

He heard the cell door snap shut the moment the cart began to move.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	13. Chapter 13

_You know what, for a story I wanted to drop into that binary waste bin on my computer desktop __more then once __this fic surely goes down well with the public. I'm stunned. And excited. And thankful. Wow!  
A special giant thank you goes out to **LadyKryptonite294** who was so inspired by a passage in my story that she created a wonderful wallpaper – when I get her permission I'll show it to you, it's awesome! Thanks a lot!_

_And now lets see how the great escape's going..._

* * *

**Chapter 13**

* * *

It was like being blind. Minus the darkness.

Depending on your sense of hearing. Solely. It was nothing new to Dean as his core time was the night and his workplace were mostly dark places. Still, traveling like sardines in a tin together with dirty laundry without knowing what was going on beyond the bright canvas walls surrounding him was unnerving at all events.

Thank God it wasn't dark in the cart. Dean would have had his issues being stuck in a dark box, the short but intense time in his own coffin still too fresh in his mind.

He tried to get his breathing under control, tried to keep it deep and regular and therefore as quiet as possible. He didn't dare to move, held his arms close to his chest as not to bulge out the fabric cart walls.

He listened intently to the sounds outside, tracked the way Phillip was going.

There were the nurse's footsteps, slow, calm. Very good, Phil was as cool as a cucumber, at least he moved like it. A born criminal, so to speak.

The sound of the casters on the linoleum floor, a low, smooth hum, interrupted by the funny scratching of one of the swivels that seemed to be broken.

Dean heard cell doors being closed, footsteps farther away, voices in different intonations. Orderlies talking to each other, harshly, chitchatting. Orderlies talking to patients, reassuring, soothing.

The voices came closer, a greeting, a "Here, let me open the door for you" followed by Phillip's friendly thanking. Main double doors, alright. So the elevators were next. Dean didn't know the building but he guessed they'd be driving downstairs into the basement where the laundry was, heading for the delivery entrance there, given that there was one.

The cart came to a halt and Dean could identify a person walk past it. The sound of the elevator button being pushed. Fingers drumming a rhythm on the metal cover of the cart. Damnit, Phil, nervous much?

"Phillip?" A shrill female voice from somewhere behind, heavy steps approaching. No clue who this was, but back off, woman.

At least the cadenced tapping stopped.

"Rita, hey!" Phillip sounded surprised, but not too anxious, "Still here? I thought you wanted to be home earlier because of your sister's birthday?"

"Yeah, well, actually I'm on my way...you don't mind sharing the next lift with me?"

Actually yes.

"No, of course not."

Dean rolled his eyes, mouthing a '_Come on'_.

"How's your lovely wife doing, Phillip? She okay?"

"Well, the fracture's quite complicated, that's why she's still in hospital. But she'll be okay eventually."

Relevant information – one, if they had to ice Ghosty somewhere on Phillip's property there'd be no one getting in their way. Good thing. Two, he hadn't asked how Phillip's wife was doing. Damn, where have your manners gone, Winchester?

"I have a day off on Thursday, tell her I'm going to come over and bring her something to cheer her up!"

The elevator arrived, the doors opening with a mechanical whirr.

"Let me help you", Rita announced and Dean tensed, hearing Phillip stammer something like 'No problem, I can handle that...' before the cart began to move, rumbling over the threshold.

"Wow, that thing's heavy, what have you in there?"

"Woolen blankets", Phillip blurted out, "Some…patients are already demanding the woolen blankets…despite the season. Sweet, right?" The man chuckled nervously.

Smooth, Phil, really.

"Oh, okay", Dean heard Rita reply. He was about to relax when a small shout from Phillip startled him, followed by a bone-jarring collision of the cart with what felt like a wall, causing Dean to be thrown forward violently. He froze in an awkward bent position, biting his tongue to keep himself from crying out.

What the fuck!

"Careful with...you know...", Phillip forced out, his voice close to the fabric, probably kneeling beside the cart, and Dean wondered if he was able to smack him through the material without Rita noticing. "The management doesn't like dents in their elevator walls, remember?"

And surely Salinger doesn't like dents in his patients or nurses, Dean thought angrily, straightening slowly, careful not to make any sounds.

"Ah", Rita responded with a snarky tone when the elevator moved downward, "This piece of crap is as old as the building, it's about time they install new ones."

The so-called piece of crap slowed it's descent and came to a stuttering halt. The laundry cart was wheeled out into what sounded like a hallway, the steps of his two wingmen outside echoing loudly from probably naked walls. Even from his fabric-surrounded position Dean could feel the slight drop of temperature.

Basement, probably.

"What is that?" Dean flinched at Rita's exclaim and not for the first time since the loud and shrill woman had joined their journey he wished he could just send her someplace else with one snip of his fingers.

One pair of steps faded lightly and Rita's voice sounded again, from a distance: "See. Said management should invest into more of those fancy laundry carts so people don't have to throw the laundry on the basement floor."

Rustling. Grunting. More rustling, coming closer. "Phillip, be a sweetheart and open that lid for me, would ya?"

Dean didn't need a dictionary to decipher Phillip's sharp intake of breath. Didn't need to think hard about what kind of words Phil was searching for when he heard the man's breathless 'Uh's' and 'Wait's'.

In one swift motion Dean leaped forward and snatched the closest blanket he could reach, curling himself into a ball, draping the huddled fabric over him.

He stopped breathing the moment he heard the creaking of the metal lid, saw his surroundings brighten up when the cold fluorescent tubes on the hallway's ceiling entered his hideout. He winced at the smell, the odor of too many things he didn't want to mull over further almost unbearable now that his face was pressed right against the dirty linens sharing the cramped place with him.

With a thud something heavy landed on his back, soft and yielding, burying him.

Burying him alive.

_No. _

"See, there we go!" Ritas voice. Shrill.

Searing through his brain like a hot poker.

_Can't breathe..._

Dean knew he was breathing too harshly, he needed to calm down, he would blow his cover, their cover, but he needed to _breathe, air, now, please, pleasepleaseplease..._

His hands hurt, his nails digging into his palms, the muscles of his fingers cramping, a wave of nausea rushing over him like a bucket of ice water, beads of perspiration forming on his skin at the same time.

The odor of old sweat ate itself through his nose, tenfolding and mixing with more stenches he was suddenly hyperaware of, stenches he remembered, had tried to suppress. In his ear the rumbling of wheels became thunder, voices rose from two to thousands, distorted from small talk to screams and screechings. Another jolt running through the vehicle, clenched teeth grinding, the pain in his hands increasing and Dean felt himself at his limit. He didn't care where they were, who was outside, what was at stake, he just needed to get out of this.

Harsh breaths turned into gasps, then into grunts when he scrambled himself free of the arms and claws grasping him _just blankets, only blankets, Dean! _and pushed himself up, feeling his head collide with the metal lid. Shaking hands found the cool surface and with all the strength he could muster up he pushed against it, satisfied when the only obstacle on his way to precious air was so easy to remove.

It was dark, a detail Dean hadn't noticed in his panic. A fact that was oil into the burning fires of his terror. There was a low rumbling. Was he driving?

"Woah, hey", a familiar voice farther away to his right. _Friend or foe? Friend or fucking foe?_ "Dean, relax, it's okay, calm down."

Dean yanked his head towards the voice. "Sammy?" Was that his voice? Geez...

"No, Dean, it's Phillip. Do you remember?" The other man's voice was soft and gentle, someone who was used talking to people being out of their minds. Somehow it bothered Dean that he was the guy out of his mind right now.

"Yeah..." he rasped, running a hand over his face, "...just..." With the force of an avalanche the reason of his laundry cart excursion slammed back into him and he looked around frantically. "Where are we? Are we in a van? Did it work? Are we outside?"

Dean's eyes had adjusted themselves a bit to the dark and roamed the small room. A van or a truck, alright. It looked like an UPS truck, it was possible to march from the shipping space into the driver's cab.

He recognized Phillip long form at the steering wheel.

"We have to pass the reception area. But that's going to be a piece of cake." The nurse chuckled nervously, "Man, I'm glad I got rid of Rita in time...you almost blew our cover. What's wrong, are you claustrophobic?"

Dean stared at the other man. There were times he hadn't been. He could have crawled into the narrowest holes without hesitation, endure the ugliest smells. Bad ass hunter.

Not anymore.

"Maybe", Dean replied and swallowed, before he continued with a reproachful undercurrent, "But you know what, I want to see you being buried underneath a pile of dirty laundry. Bedlinen, for god's sake."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Rita was so quick opening the lid...I was sure our game's over. But even I didn't see you in there, nice hiding job." He slowed the car down. "Hate to say it but you have to go back into seclusion."

Another wave of nausea hit Dean at the thought. "Can I keep at least the lid open?"

Phillip hesitated. "Okay. But in case someone wants to check the van I'll come rushing and close it and I don't want to hear a single whimper."

A whimper? Had he whimpered?

Dropping to his knees, face up and as close to the opening as possible, Dean felt the van come to a halt. A squealing window crank. Phillip was saying something Dean couldn't make out, and someone else was answering. Two man laughing. The motor of the van. They were moving again.

They were out.

Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.

Dean almost jumped out of the laundry cart with joy and scrambled through the narrow opening leading to the driver and the passenger seat. When he slumped down on his seat he noticed an almost crazy smile on Phillip's face, softly illuminated by the street lights and the interior illumination.

"I don't believe it", he chuckled, and it was so contagious Dean couldn't help it, he chuckled with him.

"You do realize that the fun is just about to start, right?" the Winchester laughed, the tension slowly leaving his muscles and mind.

"I don't care, bring it on. Right now I can do anything."

The two men went silent, every one relishing his own little achievement.

"So, who's Sammy?"

The question hit Dean like a sledgehammer. Damn panic attacks. He was turning into a little pansy, always asking for his brother lately. Good thing he was out of that All-inclusive Hotel California.

"I had a cat", Dean replied, the obvious untruth laying heavy in his stomach. He didn't want to lie to Phillip, he liked the guy, trusted him. But he was going to bail tonight. Every information Phillip had was like a bread crumb to all the hungry vultures that would swarm out and come looking for him soon.

So sorry, no truth here.

"What happened?"

"I got it as a kitten and some day it ignored my warnings and ran onto the street." And got run over by a ruby red truck.

"I'm sorry." Phillip paused, then turned his face toward Dean. "So you call for your dead cat when you're scared of bed linens?"

"Shut up."

Phillip let out a hearty laugh which he rounded off with a merry sigh and a shake of his head. Dean looked over at him and marveled at the man's sleaziness despite their upcoming adventure. Or more to say, the second part of it.

"Okay, tell me about that ghost", Dean encouraged, needing to know whatever there was to know.

"Oh yeah, that", Phillip said and went serious. "Mitchell McKinley. That's the ghost's name. And I can't believe I just said that."

"Go on."

"Okay, so, in 1903 the Bucannon Railway Company was planning to build a railroad track from southern Florida northwards. They bought all the properties and houses being in the way. But good old Mitch didn't sell. He fought tooth and nail against the company until they had enough and sent some kind of removal crew. When McKinley still didn't relent, they killed him."

Dean followed the streetlights with eyes wide awake, processing Phillip's words. "And they didn't tear the place down?" he asked.

"No, turned out it was a good location and the company decided to use it as a train station."

"Did McKinley make any appearances earlier? Any stories of 'Haunting Mitchell' in the papers centuries ago?"

Phillip nodded sadly, "Yes, plenty. The old station had had more owners then a challenge cup, there are stories and files and expert reports, everything hidden in the depths of my realtor's office, of course." He slammed the palm of his right onto the steering wheel. "People have died in there and my realtor sells the house pointing out how beautiful the architectural style is. Unbelievable!"

"Please tell me he's buried at the cemetery and not somewhere in your garden where we might have to dig up the whole place..."

Phillip smirked. "Cemetery. Headstone included. No problem to track him down."

"That are actually good news", Dean breathed in relief. His greatest concern – vanishing into thin air.

Streetlight after streetlight rushed by, as if they were the only things existing outside. It was the first time Dean noticed how isolated the Okeechobee mental institution was. Since he had joined Phillip in the front row they were driving on a road through murky woods, the only illumination being the lamps, strung like a collier.

"Can I ask you something, Dean?"

"Sure."

"All that stuff about ghosts, how to ward them off, how to kill...uh...you know...erase them. Whatever we're going to do...how do you know all that?"

Dean winced. He knew he had to explain his wisdom at some point. He just wasn't sure whether to answer truthfully.

"Told you, I know a few things about that stuff. I read a lot of those esoteric books."

"But you are one hundred percent sure that this is working? That burning thing? I mean, not everything you read in books is true."

"Trust me, it'll work."

"Has this anything to do with the reason you're at Lake Okeechobee?"

Dean looked at the other man. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the incident that brought you into the facility. Has it anything to do with your 'esoteric wisdom'?" Phillip let go of the steering wheel briefly to set the last two words into imaginary quotation marks with his index fingers.

"Maybe", Dean replied, his tone defeated. What was he going to say? Yes, he had tried to save someone from a werewolf, and yes, the stories were true, werewolves did shift back into their human form when they were dead, and yes, he had landed his sorry ass in a freakin' nuthouse because he hadn't been gone fast enough before the cops had showed up, finding him beside a corpse.

The story of his life, right?

In the distance a few lights showed up. Billboards. Neon signs of shops. Dean knew now how Robinson Crusoe must have felt when he had set foot into civilization again after days, weeks, years on a lone island. When they passed a KFC, the smell of chicken and fries wafting into the truck's interior, Dean felt his mouth watering.

He tried to recognize the streets, tried to backtrack the way to the motel he and Sam had put up at. He would have to walk or run the way later as he was not going to steal the van. And he had no intentions to get lost on his escape. Especially with the outfit he wore.

"We're almost there", Phillip announced, rounding a corner, "What are we going to do? Dig a hole, hoping to find the...body." Dean heard him swallow. "And then?"

"We drench it with gasoline and light it up. Easy as pie." Oh yeah, pie. The first thing he was going to do before he would head back to the motel was getting some pie. And then he would relish the dumbfounded look on Sam's face when he was showing up on his doorstep.

"Yeah. Easy as pie. Thanks." The nurse shook himself, an almost comical sight.

Dean cursed when they took another turn that lead them once again away from the town. He then saw a lonely figure walking along the street, strolling, almost waltzing, as if it was the most common thing to take a walk in the middle of the night. Well, okay, evening, but still…

"Some people I don't get", he muttered.

"What?"

"That guy out there..." Dean nodded his chin towards the pedestrian who had his back towards them.

Phillip straightened in his seat. "Where? I don't see anyone."

Dean opened his mouth to say something when the figure turned around to face them. The headlights of their van hit the man's face, revealed familiar but unwelcome features, a hateful glare, a cruel smile.

"Mike..." Dean whispered.

_Hey Dean._

Dean froze, his breath hitching. He was torn between pushing the passenger side door open to slam it into the apparition with full force, even if it wouldn't do any harm, or recoiling, jumping closer to Phillip when the van passed the figure, it's pale face with those cold staring eyes too close to his window.

"Where's that guy you were talking about? Not that I hit him by accident..." Phillip rambled, oblivious to Dean's distress, "One of those paper boys maybe, dressed in black and working at night. Gotta love them."

Dean didn't listen. He shifted, tried to see what lay behind them in the rear view mirror. Mike was still there. One hand raised. The son of a bitch was waving.

Sinking back onto the seat Dean swallowed heavily. He was indeed going crazy. He was losing his marbles, the few that were left. Oh God. When would this stop? Was it going to stop at all?

"Okay, we're there!" Phillip exclaimed, steering the van next to a big masonry wall and putting it to a halt. "Entrance's over there, the gates are open 24/7."

"Hmm...good. Good", Dean replied hoarsely, his mind somewhere entirely else. He caught himself performing a gesture he had mastered during the last week, the ever calming heels of his hands pressed deeply into his eye sockets.

_Getafuckinggrip_.

He felt Phillip's gaze trained on him. "Dean?"

A sharp intake of breath, a moment of frantic blinking and he was back again. Tried to be. Needed to be.

"Right here" he stated, straightening. "Okay…where's the grave and where are the tools?"

* * *

_To be continued..._


	14. Chapter 14

_There's this funny scene in my kitchen right now. My hubby's making soup and right now he's standing there, watching the 'Swabian pockets' (a typical german thing, you have to try it sometime!) swim around in the broth. And he just told me how exciting this looks. Okay, so. Now you know how I came up with that story here, about the crazy people.  
_

_But hey, on with the story, folks!_  
_This cha__pter is dedicated to **fanotheboys**. When you reach that special part with Dean flying: this is for your hubby and you ;-)_  
_Also, once again I want to say special thanks to **LadyKryptonite294** for creating another wallpaper for this story – check them out here: _http:/ladykryptonite294(dot)deviantart(dot)com/

* * *

**Chapter 14**

* * *

Right now, Dean was missing the calming weight of a shotgun in his hands. Filled with the faithful power of rock salt shells, ready to blow Mitch McKinley's ass into next week. So far, the spirit hadn't shown any interest in them. Dean just hoped they were digging up the right spot and the remains in the grave matched to the name on the headstone.

He had to admit, he was surprised at Phillip's determination. The man was shoveling large amounts of dirt from the hole he currently stood in, never once complaining. He had brought lighters, gasoline, a canister of salt and the crowbar Dean held in his hands, his only weapon against the ghost, should he make an appearance, without questioning it.

Sam would have become hoarse from bitching by now.

Dean was struggling to keep his head in the game. One part of his jumbling thoughts was constantly drifting off to Mike, his apparition having thrown Dean off the track. The other part was trying to scheme a plan concerning his escape.

If he were a really nasty villain he would go and knock Phillip out, just like that. Maybe use the crowbar, for good measure. The guy was so oblivious and dewy-eyed right now, with his back towards Dean, mumbling something about the soil being sticky and smelly, it was downright peaceful.

Of course Dean wasn't going to betray Phillip's trust. He had promised to help him out with his problem. Besides, there were lives at stake. Not only Phillip's, but many others as well. Now and in the future. But he doubted that he was able to just wave goodbye to the nurse and vanish into the night. Like he had said, Phillip could nuke his career with this, he wouldn't let Dean wander off just like that.

The dull 'thud' erupting from the hole yanked Dean from his musings and he looked at Phillip, who met his gaze wide-eyed.

"Oh my god, it's really there..." he breathed, starting to scratch the remaining dirt from what Dean hoped was a coffin. He walked up to the edge and sat back on his haunches, eyes darting from their finding illuminated by the flashlight to the darkness around them.

"Careful now, Phil..."

He tensed when the words rolled from his lips accompanied by small clouds of cool air. Rising to his full height Dean whirled around, sharp eyes searching the night, crowbar at the ready, the beam of the flashlight dancing along headstones and trees. He heard Phillip mutter something about the drop of temperature.

"Phillip", Dean said in a low tone, searching the dark with narrowed eyes, "Hurry up. Open the coffin, pray that there's a corpse in there. Spill the salt over the body, all of it. Drench it with the gasoline and light it up."

A cold waft stroking his cheek, an angry sigh out of nowhere.

"Yeah, okay...wait...what are you going to do?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer when something slammed into him with a force so vicious that all air was driven out of his lungs. He was being hurled through the air, felt himself flying through the cool night for a ridiculously long time until he impacted with an unyielding surface. When he slid down said surface a small part of his brain registered it as the trunk of an old, giant oak, the insane and unnecessary thought of how freakin' far he had just been thrown occurring to him.

Through the thick haze he heard Phillip holler his name, felt the air grow colder once more and in the next second a painful shower of what seemed to be tiny rocks hit him, causing him to yank his arms up protectively.

A painful shriek accompanied Dean's own hiss and suddenly it was silent again, the temperature rose back to normal.

"Dean! Jesus!" Phillip cried out, attempting to crawl out of the his hole.

The Winchester shook his head and pulled his knees close. "Jus' me", he groaned, "Haven't seen Jesus around..."

"Are you okay? Is anything broken? Can you…"

"Phillip, cut it out, I'm okay. I'm kinda...well...used to this…"

"What! You're crazy, let me at least check you over…"

"Listen, Phil, you stay in that grave and burn the sucker, I got it out here."

"I prefer the term 'hole', if you don't mind."

"Whatever." Dean touched the back of his head gingerly, wincing. He then scrambled to his feet, noticing bright white crumbs trickling from his jacket. "Did you throw rock salt at me?" he asked incredulously.

"Not at you", Phillip shrugged before he held his hands up, "Hey, it's not my fault that thing's permeable."

Suddenly, the temperature dropped again. Dean tightened his grip on the crowbar and took a step towards the grave. Phillip cursed and grabbed the shovel, ramming it into the coffin with gusto and a few grunts. His small outcry of disgust went unnoticed when Dean saw movement from the corner of his eye and whirled around, swinging the heavy crowbar through the air like a golf club. Mitchell McKinley's spirit dissipated with an angry screech.

"Phil. Status Report", Dean barked, his eyes searching the dark.

"I'm gonna throw up", Phillip replied miserably.

"What else?"

"Stop rushing me, I'm on it..."

The sound of salt being scattered over something incredibly dry filled the night. Dean was tense, all senses on alert, waiting for the telltale signs of Mitchell's return, eyes roaming the cemetery. For the first time since weeks he felt utterly strong, almost like Superman only seconds before leaving the telephone booth after shedding a mousy suit. A near to perfect moment, like the good old days, hunting things, keeping watch over a grave, a simple, non-ethereal, non-demonic weapon in hand.

The deep breath Dean was about to take was cut off by an icy grip around his throat, a cold draft into his face making his eyes water, the crowbar being ripped from his hands. Once again he felt himself moving without actually using a muscle, grunted when his back once again impacted with the oak.

Inches from Dean's face Mitchell McKinley materialized, their noses almost touching. The spirit's lips were moving, his expression angry, bitter, his one large hand that held Dean pinned to the tree increasing the pressure on his throat.

"This is getting old", Dean croaked into the ghost's face, annoyed over the thing's tenacity, while he searched the ground for his wrested weapon and tried to wriggle himself free. Time was the key. They needed time, Phillip needed time and if being McKinley's anti-stress-ball would earn them precious minutes he'd gladly volunteer.

Suddenly the spirit turned his head around slowly, and Dean felt the dead fingers loosen their grip on him.

Mitch had noticed Phillip. Damnit.

"Hey", Dean spat at his opponent, trying to get his attention back, "You prefer straight tracks through your bedroom or curves?"

With the deepest growl Dean had ever heard McKinley yanked his head back, stared at him with so much hate and revulsion the Winchester waited for the crack of his own neck any second. To his surprise the icy grip around his throat suddenly vanished, together with the apparition.

Feeling his feet back on the floor, Dean didn't lose time. His frantic gaze searched the grass for the crowbar. Thank god for the moonlight. He had no time to get the flashlight that lay god-knows-where.

"Phillip...get your freakin' ass in gear!" he hollered, the night still lacking the eagerly awaited glow of a burning fire.

"I'm on it, I'm on it..." Phillip hollered back, his voice strained, panicky, the reassurances rounded off by further curses.

Something in the grass caught Dean's eye. He lunged at it, at the same time checking on Phillip and the source of the man's distress. The nurse stood in the grave, fidgeting a Zippo with ten fingers, the small device staying alarmingly dormant and dark. Hissing a few expletives of his own at the unpleasant sight Dean prayed that at least the shadow on the ground was what he was looking for.

He almost yelped in delight when his fingers closed around the cold metal of the crowbar. Phillip's simultaneous shout of joy, "Works!", completely made his day.

However, when Dean looked up the triumphant grin froze on his features. "DOWN!" he yelled and yanked the crowbar up in the air.

He saw Phillip's eyes widen, then disappear completely when the man dropped to his knees and vanished in between the protective walls of the grave, the space he had occupied now filled with the sinister appearance of a vengeful spirit. The look on McKinley's transparent face was priceless when his clawed fist grabbed only thin air.

Dean didn't hesitate. He launched the crowbar at full tilt towards the ghost who had discovered his next victim-to-be in the hole in front of him and was about to pull a flailing Phillip close. The metal bar flew through the night air, a whistling noise accompanying it's journey.

It hit it's target, cut through McKinley's incorporeal form, causing the spirit to dissipate once more.

Dean dropped to his knees and pulled his friend from the grave, all the while keeping their surroundings in sight. When Phillip rolled himself onto his back and threw the burning Zippo into the hole, Mitchell McKinley's remains went up in flames with a whoosh. Somewhere in the dark a terrible scream erupted.

"There", Phillip breathed, pointing to their left where McKinley's ghost appeared again, wrapped in flames, his face a mask of pain and terror. Seconds later, it vanished, wrapping the cemetery into silence except for the crackling fire.

For mere minutes, no one moved, no one said a word. Dean and Phillip sat side by side, watched the dancing flames, recovered their breaths.

"Dean?"

"Right here."

"What happened to 'You never throw your weapon away'?"

Dean turned his head and glanced at Phillip. "Lesson 2", he replied flatly, "You know the rules, you can break them."

Phillip answered him with a pair of raised eyebrows before he started to laugh, a tiny chuckle at first, rising to a full-on laughing fit. A contagious one, causing Dean to get the giggles as well.

* * *

The fire burnt for what felt like ages. When the last flames died down, leaving nothing but ashes and a feeble glow behind, Phillip stood, rubbing his hands together.

"Too bad I can't tell anyone of this", he said, shaking his head, "I feel like a hero, man!"

"Oh, you can", Dean replied, scrambling to his feet as well, "But don't come running to me when they put you in a cell next to mine and force you to create something beautiful out of modeling clay." He walked around McKinley's grave, searching the ground for the crowbar. Again.

Phillip laughed, "Yeah, right. Speaking of, it's time to head back. What do you say, are we done here?"

The tip of his boot grazed the black tool. "Yeah, about that." Dean bent down slowly, reaching for it. "There's something I wanted to talk about."

The sound of a gun being cocked let him froze dead in his tracks, his hand hovering only inches over the crowbar lying in the grass.

"Leave it where it is, Dean."

Dean pulled his hand back and straightened ever so careful, shoulders slumping when he found himself face to face with the barrel of a gun.

"Phil. Really. A simple 'Thank You' would have been enough", he deadpanned, rising his hands I surrender.

Phillip's expression didn't match with the scene. Dean could see he was tense – the way his lips were pressed together, his mouth a thin line. His eyes were showing too much regret and uncertainty.

"I know what you're planning", he said in an sympathetic tone, "and I can't blame you, I would take this chance, too."

"So, I take it that you understand why I have to go now", Dean tried, half questioning, half stating.

"Dean..."

"No, Phillip. I won't go back. That's just facts." Dean dropped his hands, let them dangle loosely by his sides. "Things have happened in my past. Things I won't elaborate further because I swear you don't want to know. Somehow I have managed to cope with all that crap, have pushed all those memories and experiences into the darkest and loneliest corner of my mind, hoping they wouldn't come back and bite me in the ass. But since I'm in that shithole of mental institution I have the feeling I'm loosing my marbles. I'm going crazy, slowly but surely and I just can't put my finger on it why and how it's happening."

He stopped and swallowed hard. "I'm going to turn around now and I'm going to walk right through those cemetery gates over there. You can shoot me or you can let me go, it's your decision. But one thing's for sure, as long as I'm breathing I won't set a foot in that building ever again."

Dean blinked, feeling his eyes watering slightly. He didn't know where that wave of emotion had come from – maybe it was disappointment, maybe the strain of the past week finally caught up with him. For a moment he didn't move, couldn't find the strength to even twitch a muscle. Suddenly, he felt so damn tired he was about to drop to the ground and have a nap right here and now.

Damn those drugs.

Phillip stood, the gun in his hand still trained on Dean's chest, not wavering, not losing it's aim. But where the weapon was cold and emotionless, it's master couldn't hide his humanity. Phillip's eyes were glassy, inner turmoil and desperation clearly visible in them.

"We're supposed to help", he said, his voice calm and sad, "the idea of that facility, the meaning of my job is to free you from pain and sorrows such as those you're describing."

Dean shook his head, equally sad. "There are things you can't heal just like that. And after what you have learned tonight I'm sure you know that now, too."

There was his always complaining inner voice, screaming at him, pushing him to just run, to cut the psychological emo-crap and just move. A tiny part of him even welcomed the idea of Phillip pulling the trigger. Talking about freeing from pain and sorrows.

But another part wanted to make peace with the other man, yearned for his blessing, whatever he would choose to do.

Almost inaudible, almost not there, the decision was made.

"Go", Phillip whispered, defeated. He put the gun down, let it hung from powerless fingers. His gaze dropped to the ground. "Go, before I change my mind."

Tense features cracking into a thankful smile, Dean gave Phillip a curt nod. "Thanks", he breathed, taking a tentative step backwards.

"Quid pro quo."

Phillip's answer caused Dean to stop dead. "You know what, you of all people shouldn't quote Lecter", he remarked in disgust, smirking when Phillip managed an eye-roll and a feeble smile himself.

"Just go already", he shouted, waving his free hand in a shooing gesture at Dean. An order the Winchester easily complied. With a grateful wink he turned and jogged off, avoiding graves and headstones, through the open cemetery gates.

* * *

_To be continued..._

_

* * *

_Author's notes:_ That was easy, right? Guess again...  
_


	15. Chapter 15

_Tomorrow's Valentine's Day! So, all those happy couples out there, have fun celebrating it. But don't support the flower and candy industry too much – stick to the simple things, those which tend to get lost somewhere in between work and friends and duties and all that stuff straining a relationship...a simple 'You know what, I love you so madly, it's almost supernatural!' might do the trick._

_By the way, this chapter's nothing for fragile souls, it contains some heavy gory stuff. Be warned! And enjoy!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 15**

* * *

The road just outside the graveyard was deserted, only a few occasional cars passing by. Dean paused and pondered whether it was wise to walk along the main road into town, even if it was devoid of people, but decided it was the quickest way leading him straight to the motel.

Dean just hoped Sam was there to open the door and ready for a swift departure. They had no time to loose, the faster this town was ging to appear in the Impala's rear view mirror the better Dean would feel. Focusing on the lights of the houses and shops, Dean followed the road at a hurried pace, glancing over his shoulder from time to time to make sure no one was following.

His thoughts went back to Phillip. The guy had really carried a gun. Hadn't hesitated to point it at him. And if they hadn't had a good rapport with each other, Dean didn't doubt he would have felt at least the barrel impacting with his skull after turning around and marching off. Maybe would have felt the bullets themselves, entering his body. He just hoped the other man would find an explanation for Dean's disappearance. One that wouldn't cost his job or send him straight into jail.

Dean turned around once more. No one in sight, no one behind him. Good. This was almost too easy.

However, when he turned forward again he was met with a toothy grin.

Skidding to a halt, Dean almost fell backwards onto his butt. He stared at the person in front of him in disbelief.

"I see you're free. Congratulations."

Steeling himself, Dean clothed his face in cold smiles. "Tell me something, Mike", he said, wincing at the betraying tremor in his voice, "how do I get rid of you, huh?"

Mike laughed and started to pace up and down, slow, small steps. "Maybe you should've done your job better downstairs. Should've gotten rid of me when you had the chance." He jerked his head towards the town. "Come on. Let's have a walk."

Dean's face darkened. "Thanks. I'll pass."

"Fine", Mike shrugged, "Then stay where you are."

"What do you want? Did I borrow something and forgot to give it back? Power drill? Poultry scissors?"

"Actually, I wanted you to be a part of our little reunion."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Take a look around."

He could kick himself for even listening. For standing there having a chit-chat with some bad memory that only gave him one gastric ulcer after another. But curiosity was a strong thing; sometimes it overrode the common sense. So Dean turned around, every angular degree causing his terror to spike higher.

It was a small selection of faces he never wanted to see again. Only five or six people, standing in an exact circle around him, not too close to be intimidating, but too close to be comfortable.

He knew everyone of them. Knew them from the inside out. Knew the color of their blood, their smell, their screams.

"What...how...", Dean stammered, the sight almost choking him.

"You remember them, don't you", Mike replied calmly, "it's funny, really. Someone might think you don't recognize your victims anymore, concerning the body count. Plus, they're intact right now, no torn clothes or shredded skin. And still you recognize all of them. Amazing."

Dean's instincts were screaming at him, were mentally pulling him away, forcing him towards the sanctuary that was the town. He just couldn't move. He was frozen to the spot, memories catching up with him in the most vicious way. His mouth was opening and closing like that of a stranded fish, no possible things to say available.

"Remember her?" Mike asked, walking up to the woman to Dean's right, "she was so scared. But you managed to earn her trust so easily, lulled her into a sense of security so false it had been gruesome to watch..."

"It wasn't false", Dean shouted, his eyes watering, "I wanted to protect her...I did!"

"Yes, you did", Mike spat back at him, "for a few years you did. But then you accepted Big Al's offer, you got off the rack and friends turned into victims, people worth protecting got worth to hurt..."

The moment Mike finished his sentence, the woman threw her head back with a blood-curdling scream, clawed hands raising to her face. When her porcelain skin began to rupture, countless lacerations covering her face and hands, Dean clamped his eyes shut and turned away, shame and terror pressing down on him.

"It's hard to watch when your soul's intact, am I right?" Mike hissed into Dean's ear, "It didn't bother you when you were the one inflicting those injuries."

"I'm sorry..." It was a desperate whisper, scarcely audible, "I wasn't myself..."

Mike's voice sounded from farther away suddenly. "How about him? He was one of your last!"

Dean reluctantly looked up, fought against the compulsion that tried to keep him from doing so. He had done that. He would at least have the decency to see what he had done with his own human eyes and mind.

The kid, not older than Sam, met his gaze with a mixture of sadness and mockery, scrutinized him in a way Dean could hardly bear. Eyes that accused him. A twitching mouth that laughed at him.

"Sorry", Dean rasped, feeling hot tears run down his cheeks, a lump in his throat making it harder to talk and swallow, "I don't know what to do to fix this..."

Suddenly the kid's eyes widened in shock, mouth opening to a soundless cry.

Downstairs those soundless screams, that silent suffering had driven Dean mad with annoyance and anger. Watching it here and now was the worst experience Dean had ever had to make.

Once again the Winchester had to avert his gaze, covering his eyes with trembling fists. He knew what was about to happen with that boy. He didn't want to see it.

"Blades", Mike spoke up in awe beside him, "You've been always good with all kinds of blades. Tell me, Dean, what's been so exciting about machetes and knives and razors? The convenient handling or the pleasant feeling of sharp metal running through flesh and muscle as if it were butter?"

"Stop it..."

"Aw, are you done already? You haven't seen the half of it yet, torture master." Mike's voice was so close all of a sudden, it was literally everywhere – in Dean's head, in his ears, it even hurt his teeth.

"LOOK AT IT, DEAN!" – an angry hiss, piercing marrow and bone.

Dean felt something warm running down his hands, causing him to yank them away from his face. "God, I'm so sorry..." At the sight of fresh, gleaming blood covering his fingers a wave of nausea slammed into him, smothering the last bits of composure.

Frantic, glassy eyes darted from the mess on his hands to the boy who was staring in confusion at his limbs laying on the ground. Back to the woman whose skin resembled a spider's web of macabre beauty. Over to another woman whose scalp was torn off, the remains of her long brunette hair in her hands, being stroked lovingly.

Dean stumbled backwards, shaking his head in denial and horror, trying to wipe the sticky liquid from his hands in a frenzy.

"Leave me be", he sobbed, his lungs screaming for precious air they were deprived of due to panicky gasps and hitches. The part of his brain still holding tight onto a last bit of reason registered that Mike stayed back, didn't follow him. He stood, surrounded by mutilated things that were covered in blood, screaming and howling and crying, watching Dean retreat with curious interest.

From the corner of his eye something bright caught Dean's attention. In the distance, closing in quickly, gaining brightness and strength. A noise, similar to the call of a large animal, rang out. Somewhere a familiar voice yelled his name.

Relief washed over him. The light engulfing him felt so warm, so soothing. Dean heard his name again.

"Cas", he breathed, managing a feeble smile, "about freaking time."

The night got dark and silent in an instant when a ferocious blow knocked him off his feet and pure agony ripped him from consciousness.

* * *

Sam knew that pressing an elevator button like a mad man had little to no effect on the elevator itself. It didn't gather speed, the doors didn't open or close faster. Still, Sam's whole hand hurt from pushing and slamming the buttons as if a tad of violence and a few curses could will the whole thing to get his gear wheels moving.

He didn't wait for the door to open fully, squeezed his tall frame into the hallway, turning right towards Salinger's office. Sam wasn't surprised to find a small crowd in front of the doc's door, a few people he knew, some others he didn't.

Spotting Salinger smack in the middle of the gathering Sam dashed right towards him, not bothering to apologize to the persons he was pushing aside in his hurry. When the doctor spotted him, he motioned him to come closer.

"Gentlemen", Salinger exclaimed addressing the others, "I need to talk to doctor Larsson in private, if you don't mind." He signaled Sam to come into his office with a curt wave of his hand.

Sam clenched his jaw and passed the elder man, heading to one of the chairs in front of Salinger's desk without sitting down. He was in no mood for courtesies. The moment he heard the door click shut he turned at the doctor.

"Where is he?"

Salinger tilted his head and pointed at the chairs. "Don't you want to take a seat, doctor Larsson? I could..."

"I want to know where and in what condition he is."

The other man let out a sigh and rounded his desk, sinking into his huge leather armchair.

"Dean's in the hospital ward. He has yet to regain consciousness but we think we can handle his injuries here, there's no need to admit him to a hospital."

That was the information Sam hadn't gotten over the phone. Information so desperately needed. Was his brother okay? Alive? Briefly closing his eyes in relief he decided to slump down onto a chair after all.

"What happened?" he asked the third important question on his list.

"He fell down a staircase, from the highest step. Fortunately his nurse was with him and was able to administer first aid."

Sam gaped at the doctor. A staircase. Dean fell down a staircase?

"Dean's injuries", Salinger continued, "are mostly superficial and not life-threatening, thank god. Somehow he managed to tear the stitches on his wrist and the cut reopened, but he didn't loose too much blood, thanks to Phillip. A concussion and an arsenal of cuts and bruises – it could have been much worse. Some guardian angel Dean has."

_You have no idea_, Sam thought bitterly and pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt his heartbeat settle, the sea of emotion and worry for his brother quietening down a bit.

When his cell phone had ripped him from a deep, peaceful slumber it had taken Sam a moment to even process who was on the other line. The keywords 'Dean', 'accident', 'attendance requested' however had kicked him awake in an instant, had provoked a storm of thoughts, fears and confusion. There weren't many times he had gotten dressed that quick, had driven the Impala at such high speed, had stormed a building with so much force and determination.

His brother had fallen down a staircase, which was bad. But compared to the things Sam had feared it was...disturbingly natural. No demon involved. So far, at least. Because that had been his biggest concern, the demon Dean had spoken about making the first move and trying to hurt or kill his brother before they had a chance to get the son of a bitch.

"I'd like to see him", Sam demanded, his voice surprisingly soft.

Salinger nodded. "Of course. But as I said, he's not conscious. And when he wakes up he might be a bit out of it because of the pain medication."

"It's okay, I just..." ..._want to see my brother, the only family left, with whom I had an argument the last time we met_..."well, I'd like to check on him. And maybe it's possible to talk to that nurse? Phillip, right?"

Again, Salinger nodded. "He's one of the most dedicated people we have in here. He's very upset about the incident."

Sam managed a pained smile and stood. He was eager to hear the story from first hand. And maybe he'd check the guy, just to be sure.

* * *

Dean was a mess. An unconscious, colorful, wrapped up mess. Running a hand through his hair, Sam shook his head while he took in his brother's appearance.

The complete left side of Dean's face was grazed as if he had tried to act as a brake with his cheek and temple. Some minor cuts on his forehead were held together with butterfly strips while a white bandage was covering a spot just below his hairline. The formerly thin gauze that had been applied to Dean's wrist when he had been admitted here was much thicker now, a tourniquet to keep the blood were it belonged.

To Sam's relief there were no noisy machines attached to his brother – there was no hiss of a ventilator, just a very soundless nasal cannula, no _peep! peep!_ of a heart monitor. Sam hated those sounds. Would always hate them. They were unwelcome reminders that life wasn't infinite. That Dean wasn't infinite.

Not that he didn't know that, though, after all that crap that had happened to him in the last years.

Dean's wrists, injured and uninjured one, were restrained by leather belts. It was a disturbing sight, a sight that had Sam pondering over hauling the nurse on duty up to Dean's bed and force her to take them off, NOW. But knowing that it would only get them into trouble, would only attract suspicion he tried to ignore the bonds, tried to accept them for what they were – the usual safety standards for inmates in crisis stabilization.

"What are you doing, man", Sam breathed defeatedly, wincing at his own voice echoing in the silence of the room. "A staircase, Dean. Why do I have problems believing this story?"

A soft knock interrupted Sam's train of thoughts and he looked up, seeing Phillip standing in the door.

"You wanted to talk to me, doctor Larsson?" he asked tentatively, taking a step into the room. Sam watched the nurse's gaze fall onto Dean, his features softening slightly, before he looked back at Sam once more.

"Yeah", the younger Winchester replied, trying to sound open and friendly, "I just like to hear your version of what has happened. As you were with him, you know."

"Of course. But maybe we take a walk as not to disturb Dean. He needs all the rest he can get."

Sam was a bit taken aback by Phillip's care towards his brother. As if there indeed was some kind of bond between those two.

"Sure", Sam answered, standing and looking at Dean once more before he followed the nurse outside into the hallway.

"What was Dean doing outside his cell in the middle of the night?" Sam hated himself for that question. He sounded like one of those real psychiatrists or Colombo or whatever. But to keep the facade up for Phillip it was the right dose of coming across as a dick.

"He called me, said he wasn't feeling well. So I decided to take him outside into the inner courtyard to get some fresh air. On top of the staircase...I don't know, he got dizzy or something...he fell and I couldn't reach him in time to keep him from...you know." Phillip took a deep shaky breath and Sam was again amazed at the pure concern radiating from the other man.

He was either a real good actor or truly shocked.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm responsible for my patient and I should have kept a better eye on him. So, if you or Dean want to take legal measure against me, I'm okay with it." The man was so miserable, almost broken, Sam couldn't believe his eyes and ears. Salinger was right, people that dedicated were indeed rare. Especially when it came to Winchesters.

"No, no, I don't think that's necessary...at least not yet. I mean..._Christo_, it was an accident, right? It could happen to anyone."

Looking straight into Phillip's eyes Sam waited – for eyes turning black, for muscles to twitch, for any reaction. He was genuinely glad when nothing happened.

"Doctor Larsson, I..."

"Please", Sam interrupted, "it's Sam. That whole 'doctor' thing makes me feel a hundred years old."

Phillip looked at him, raising his eyebrows. "You're name's Sam?" he asked astounded.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing...it's okay, really...I was just...", Phillip snorted, "Dean told me about his cat, Sammy."

If Sam would have been drinking something right now he certainly would have been choking right now.

"Oh, his cat?" he asked nonchalantly. What the hell?

"Yeah. You know about it, too, don't you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sammy. Sure." I'm going to kill you, Dean.

"Must've been close, those two. He...well, Dean had some kind of panic attack and was calling for that cat."

This made Sam stop short. "He did?"

Phillip nodded. "So, I'm sorry I had to chuckle about the coincidence of your name being Sam, you know."

Sam blinked, couldn't suppress a pained smile. Knowing that it was him, his name on his brother's lips that kept Dean grounded, even after the last argument they had had, was both moving and unsettling at the same time.

And all the more an incentive to get Dean to freedom with all Sam's might.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	16. Chapter 16

_Confused much? Nah, there's an explantion for almost everything, right?_

_Let me put a big fat THANK YOU in the middle of the room, with candy and marshmellows sticking on it, for everybody who reads and takes the time to review! It's so great that there are so many of you really enjoying this story, wow. You're AWESOME (let me tell you, this is my current favorite word! I love it. You say "aaaaaaawwww" with your mouth huge and wide and then comes this cute little "some" right after it, and I love to pronounce it like "smmm", which makes "aaaaaaaaaawwwsmmm". Gotta love that word. Next one in the list is "Awkward". Guess why...and hey, in case there's a german word you like, let me know...)._

_Yes, I'm done already, I'm going to shut up now and let you read on..._

* * *

Chapter 16

* * *

It was quiet. A humming somewhere. A low hiss. Cold air caressed his cheeks and forehead, not strong or cool enough to be annoying, but definitely worth noting.

He felt comfortably numb. Comparable to sitting in a bathtub filled up with foam, covering every inch of his body. He was warm. The noises were dulled. It was peaceful.

A rustling to his left. Paper. A book? A magazine?

Dean opened his mouth and complained. Told whoever was there to back off and leave him alone with his foam. He even attached a few swear words, for good measure. Only that the sound reaching his own ears was a simple groan, a feeble, raspy one at that. And the answer he got wasn't peace and privacy but someone saying his name.

He was sick and tired of someone saying his name.

Instinct kicked in. Slowly. Clumsily. It literally worked it's way through the fog that was currently clutching Dean's brain cells. Instinct behaved like Hansel and Gretel, it scattered questions and memories and facts all around like bread crumbs.

_Crumbs, Dean._

Problem was, he wasn't in the mood or condition to sort all that crap out right now. Even recognizing that penetrating voice that kept saying his name and some other thing's he couldn't wrap his head around was a heavy task right now.

Dean searched his mind, tried to remember what had happened, where he was, where his current haze came from.

It had been night. A cemetery. He hadn't been alone there. Sam? Had Sam been there with him?

Phillip.

Yes.

Phillip and his ghost problem.

Right.

One memory after another lit up like the screens on the puzzleboard of 'Wheel Of Fortune', filling the gaps in Dean's head, dissolving the fog. He remembered a successful salt'n burn, could almost smell the fire. He remembered the sound of a gun being cocked, the little revelation towards Phillip concerning the way Dean felt, held captive in that mental hospital.

Phil had let him go. He had been free. Dean remembered the road, the lights of the town beckoning him closer.

_Screams._

Dean gasped, the memories crashing down on him like a breaking wave.

_Blood._

He felt a rumble in his chest, heard a groan, hands touching him.

_Cries of pain and terror._

He needed his hands. Why did his freakin' hands didn't obey? Who held him down, damnit...

_'Leave me be...'_

_'I'm sorry...'_

The groan was gone, replaced by sobs and gasps and words and something told him it was his voice, his mouth those god-awful sounds escaped from.

_'LOOK AT IT, DEAN!'_

He needed to breathe. Please. Somebody. Sam. Sammy.

Crying out in sheer horror Dean tore his eyes open, at the same time jackknifing viciously, his upper body jerking from 0° up to 90° angle.

There was something on his face, poking his nose, but he couldn't reach for it. His own hands were tied down while other hands, foreign hands were on him, pushing him, forcing him to lay back. Voices, too many of them, around his head, in his head, ringing in his ears, talking, soothing. Leave me alone. Leave me be. Take your hands off. _I'm sorrysosorrysosorry..._

"DEAN!"

Sam.

Sammy?

Dean froze, every muscle locked, his whole body shivering, teeth gritted so vigorously it hurt. He blinked, tried to focus. He had heard Sam, so his brother was here. He needed to focus so he could see him, right. No problem. He could do that.

"That's it, easy."

Definitely Sam.

Oh God he had made it. He had found him. Had reached the motel.

"Okay, Dean. And now I want you to look at me, otherwise I feel impelled to do something rather girly."

Dean blinked, his jumbled mind processing his baby brother's words. Something girly? What the...

He turned his head slowly, took in his surroundings, disorientation switching to confusion. This didn't look like their motel room. It didn't look like any motel room at all. It was more like some kind of windowless basement of a very old building, judging by the stucco on the ceiling. And then again it smelled like hospital, even had the equipment, allocated everywhere in the room.

Where the hell was he?

When his foggy gaze met Sam's, relief washed over him, the feeling of being at home enveloping his inner turmoil. From the way Sam's tense features relaxed, his brother was glad as well.

"There you are", Sam stated with a smile, gripping Dean's upper arm, "you okay?"

Dean didn't answer right away, his senses still trying to catch up. He looked past Sam and spotted a woman standing a few feet behind his brother, watching him like a hawk, ready to strike any second. She was dressed in clean white clothes.

_Nurse._

_Nurse?_

"Who the hell are you?" Dean rasped harshly, meeting the woman's steely eyes with equally icy ones. Sam patted his arm and turned to her.

"I think we're good now, thank you", he said in his most charming tone, "could you give us a minute?"

She didn't look very convinced. "You sure, doctor?"

_Doctor? What..._

"Yeah, really. I'm going to call you if I need something."

She nodded carefully and picked up a tray from the table beside her, a rather big syringe laying on it.

_Wait a minute..._

Dean felt his heartbeat quicken once again. No. No way. He had been free. He had seen the town.

The woman vanished through the only door in the room. The moment it clicked shut, Dean yanked at his restrains, grunting when the movement tore at his bandaged wrist.

"Dean, relax. What's wrong with you?" Sam tried, taking a step closer and tightening his grip on Dean's arm.

"Take those off!" Dean growled, all the while continuing to get free but keeping the tugs to a more cautious level with his right. "What is this? Where am I, Sam?"

Sam pulled his head back in bewilderment. "This is the hospital ward. You had an accident, fell down the stairs. Dean, do you remember that?"

Dean stared at his brother, waited for him to smirk and slap his shoulder in an 'Just kidding!' moment. What was he talking about? He didn't remember stairs, there weren't any stairs, he didn't fall.

"No Sam", he shook his head vehemently, "I was out. I was on my way..." He stopped and looked down to the floor as if all the answers to al his current questions were laying right there.

"You've been on your way where, Dean?" Sam's voice was soft, sympathetic, the right way to talk to someone who had lost his mind.

_'Leave me be...'_

Dean was still shaking his head. This whole mess was way beyond his current ability to reason.

"Dean?"

_'I'm sorry...'_

"Not now, Sam. Please. Gimme...just a moment, okay?" he was surprised to hear his voice switching back to it's trembling quality. Although, as he was on the verge of crying, it wasn't surprising at all.

Without looking at his brother Dean knew what Sam's was expression reflecting, the disappointment, the consternation. He could almost hear Sam's shoulders slump. And a part of him felt truly sorry, Sam had to be as confused as him.

Something bad had happened, that much Dean had figured. Those hallucinations...they had been annoying and creepy so far, but the things he had seen, had actually smelled and felt last night...geez, he was indeed on his way to become insane.

"Okay", Sam sighed, "do you want to be alone?"

Looking up from his musings Dean almost flinched at the puppy dog eyes roaming his face for a way to understand. He didn't want to be alone. Right now, he needed Sam close, needed a rock in the roaring waves he was caught in.

Sam was worried, he wanted answers. But how could Dean give him answers when he himself was slowly drowning in a puddle of drift sand, wasn't able to detect the reality?

"Could you get Phillip for me?" Dean asked. And he noticed the tiniest flicker of hurt in Sam's eyes.

"Sure", Sam answered and without further words took the dark jacket from the chair. It was only now that Dean noticed he wore the suit. Sam was doctor Larrson once more. He was really back in this place. Goddamnit.

Sam turned and headed to the door.

"Sam", Dean called, waiting for his brother to stop and look back at him, "you going to tell me what kind of girly thing you had in mind earlier?" Dean tried an uncertain smile.

Are we good, Sammy?

Sam blinked at him. "I would have taken your chubby face in my sweaty and calloused hands, you jerk." And with Sam's lips turning upwards into a tiny smile Dean's darkness lit up at least a little bit.

Bitch.

* * *

Dean had stopped trying to wriggle his right wrist free soon after the pain had gotten too immense to bear. The bandage protecting what he had assumed being fresh stitches wasn't thick enough to absorb the scraping of the leather belts.

He was frantically working on his left when a voice from the door caught his attention.

"You're going to hurt yourself further, why don't you let it go?"

He looked up and cursed over the fact that he wasn't able to lunge at the man. "Move your skinny ass in here and close the door", Dean growled, "oh, and while you're at it, get these off!" Dean yanked at his restraints, wincing when the pull hurt his injured wrist.

Phillip walked in and shut the door as he was told. He stepped up to Dean's bed like a kicked dog.

"I can't do that", he said sadly, "safety regulations."

"Safety regulations? Tell me something, Phil. Why do I still have to listen to that crap? Why am I here?"

"You don't remember, do you?"

And the next person asking him that question would earn himself a first-class head-butt.

"Actually, I did some thinking", Dean spat coldly, leaning forward, "I know, I know, I might be a bit squishy in the head lately and maybe not everything that pops up in that moldy melon right now mixes well with the whole fucking reality, but here's my theory: you didn't shoot me, which is nice and I still thank you. I walked out of those gates and unfortunately a few of my less charming hallucinations, which are a messing with my cerebral matter since I'm stuck in here, decided to make an appearance and scare me a bit, throw me off balance. They can do that, they're good, you know. And then there's this light, and every other poor fellow on this crappy planet would think: 'It's god, I'm going to heaven!' Well, me, I thought it was someone else, but that's another story. Turned out it wasn't the person I thought, though. I think it was you, running me over with the van, you son of a bitch!"

Phillip gaped at him thunderstruck, wide-eyed, his Adam's apple bopping from heavy swallowing. He grabbed the chair Sam had occupied earlier, pulled it close and sank down on it, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'd never do that..." he murmured, barely audible.

"Never do what?" Dean hissed, "Too much gore on the windshield? Too many questions?"

"Not I ran you over, Dean", Phillip suddenly yelled at him, slamming the palm of his hand onto an accessory table which answered him with a metallic _clunk!_ and rolled sideways. Both men watched the table's path in astonishment, both of them surprised at Phillip's sudden outburst.

"You marched right through those gates", Phillip continued shakily, his voice quite and soft once more, "I stayed back, cleaned up the mess, working out an explanation for the magical escape of Dean Rodgers. And then I heard you cry out."

_Stop it..._

"You were crying out and sobbing, it was terrible. So I ran onto the street, just in time to watch you being hit by a damn car."

_Cas..._

"What were you thinking, Dean? I was screaming your name, for christ's sake. Didn't you see it coming, didn't you hear it honk? You were staring right at it and still you didn't consider it advisable to step aside?"

_...about freaking time._

Dean just blinked at Phillip. Of course he had seen the light. Had heard something resembling a honk. Only that realizing that it hadn't been what he had hoped it to be had taken him some time. For example the 30 minutes in between Sam leaving and Phillip showing up.

"God help me", Phillip ran his hands over his face, "I thought you were dead, I thought this was it for you. You were bleeding like a stuck pig."

Carefully clearing his throat, Dean licked his lips, noticing for the first time that he was really thirsty. "What about the car? The driver?"

Phillip snorted humorlessly. "The kid was so far beside himself, I can tell you that. No driver's license, the car borrowed from his dad who had no clue about it, all that stuff. I sent him away, told him I'm a nurse, that I'd take care of you."

Dean's anger flared up, spiked with a pinch of sorrow. "Why did you bring me here?" he asked, "You know how I feel of being here."

"And what were I supposed to do? Leave you there? You would have bled out, you moron, you would have died..."

"At least I wouldn't be in here."

Phillip closed his mouth with an audible click. "I had no choice, Dean. If I'd have brought you to a hospital, they would have gotten you back here anyway. The amount of time you've been unconscious would have been enough for the orderlies here to notice that you're missing."

A heavy silence arose between the two men, each one working out their thoughts and feelings.

"The staircase", Dean spoke up hoarsely, feeling the conversation starting to strain him, "how did you..." He stopped, looked intently at Phillip.

"I treated your wrist on-site, you've torn the stitches there, as you might've been told or figured already. Then I brought you back the same way I brought you out, with he laundry cart. The staircase isn't under video surveillance. So, well...I draped you along the bottom of the stairs and...well, the rest is history."

The image appearing in front of Dean's inner eye could have been hilarious. Like a gay decorator draping a piece of silk or a feather boa on the floor, humming a happy tune. A real hoot.

Only that Dean felt more like crying.

He was desperate because of the place he had woken up. Desperate, angry, panicky. He was depressed, probably because of the drugs flowing through his veins, and wasn't that funny because he had almost thought drugs were meant to make you happy. His mind was chaos, reality and hallucinations still melting together, the ability to figure out what was real and what wasn't being completely lost to him right now.

And to top it all he felt downright sick, every part of his body beginning to point to the fact that it had taken a rather heavy brunt a few hours ago, bumps, bruises, cuts and sprained whatevers calling to mind.

"Guess I owe you a thanks", Dean whispered, staring onto the light blue hospital blanket covering his legs.

He heard Phillip swallow. "Listen, maybe we...we could try something like that...you know...it worked one time, it'll work a second time. Just without the whole ghost thing. Let's just wait a few days...until everybody calms down again, the dust has settled. Until you're fully recovered."

"Yeah, okay", Dean replied, his eyes drooping, "jus' don't leave me hangin', Phil. Need to be out."

"I won't. Rest now, Dean. Lay back, you're going to be fine."

And Dean wanted to believe in those words. God, he wanted so hard to believe.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	17. Chapter 17

_I can see your expression right now. It's a frown. And see, there, that nervous glance at the calendar to check the day...ha! Gotcha! No, it's not Sunday, you haven't missed half of the week, there are unfortunately a few more days to go til weekend wraps it's warm and soft wings around us..._

_This one's an exception (so don't you come running now begging for two new chapters each week, ya hear ;-)) and it's dedicated to someone special I wouldn't have found without this story: **Halit** – this interims chappy is for you! You wished for a chapter posted earlier and as you mean a lot to me I thought it'd be a nice present for you. Thank you for your kind words and your trust!_

_Enjoy! (Next chapter will be up on Sunday...really)  
_

* * *

**Chapter 17**

* * *

Walking through grass wet with dew, Sam's alert eyes scanned name after name engraved in stone, meant to withstand wind and weather for centuries. The morning was unusually chilly, causing him to pull up his collar and snuggle closer into his jacket.

To his own surprise the frustration, the anger he had felt towards Dean had faded soon after he had left the hospital ward. Yes, Sam had felt sore about that quasi dismissal, about Dean preferring Phillip by his side instead of him.

But then, if things were like Sam assumed, those two might have a few things to whisper about.

Pausing his scouting exhibition, Sam stopped and looked around, switching his attention from the gravestones to the graves. It didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for.

Turned out he wouldn't have needed a name. One look at the mess a few rows away told him he had been on the right scent.

Sam walked up to the troubled soil and sat back on his haunches, inspecting the lumps of earth and grass spread in front of the gravestone. Whoever had done this was an amateur. No way Dean or him or any other experienced hunter would have left a grave like this.

"Sir!"

For this very reason.

Sam stood and turned, watching an elderly, pudgy man hobbling towards him, huffing and puffing as if he had just ran a marathon.

"Easy", Sam held his hands up, clothing his face in smiles, partly faked, partly real because the sight was just too hilarious, "no need to rush."

The man all but skidded to a halt in front of him, reaching for Sam's hand and shaking it, at the same time waving at the destroyed grave.

"I have to apologize, we noticed it only half an hour ago", he gasped, obviously exasperated and Sam was sure the guy would soon drop dead from a least one heart attack.

"My name is Walker, I'm from the cemetery office. One of our gardeners found this...mess this morning. Are you a relative of Mister McKinley?"

"Yes...a distant relative, yeah", Sam replied, slightly taken by surprise at the sudden attention.

"Once again, I'm truly sorry, we're going to restore everything as soon as possible..."

"Does anybody know who's responsible for this, Mr. Walker?" Why not get every information he could squeeze out while he was at it.

"No, I'm afraid not. We don't think we're dealing with grave desecrators here, we've never had such a case before. We think it might have been an animal..." A dark smirk appeared on Walker's greasy face and he leaned closer, honoring Sam with an odor of sweat and garlic. "But I think it already got what it deserves."

Sam raised his eyebrows, pulling his head back slightly. "That so?"

"Yes. There's a huge puddle of blood outside on the street", Walker hissed, his voice dripping with glee, "I think the wolf or dog ran onto the road an _bam!_ got hit by a car, maybe a truck."

Sam stared at the other man, completely dumbfounded. Floating puzzle pieces suddenly clicked into place, completing a picture he had tried to draw since he had learned of Dean's accident.

Staircase my ass.

"You want to see the spot?" Walker asked eagerly, ready to guide Sam outside, keen on showing him the evidence of the desecrator's cruel fate.

"That's not necessary, thanks", Sam put him off, "what about the body, McKinley, is he still there? In his grave?"

The excitement on Walker's face turned to disgust. "We don't know yet...what do you mean, 'still there'? Do you think someone...that's crazy!"

"You know what, never mind", Sam said. He had heard and seen enough. Right now he needed to talk to his brother.

Turning, leaving Walker standing there with his mouth agape, Sam headed towards the Impala parked outside the giant iron gates of the cemetery.

Unbelievable. It was the first and only word that came Sam to mind to describe the whole scene.

So they had done it. Dean and Phillip. His brother and the nurse. Somehow, god knows how exactly, they had gotten out, Phillip had gotten Dean out for a little salt'n burn. From the way it looked a successful one, with the grave filled in again, although sloppily.

But what had happened then?

Reaching the car, Sam slumped behind the steering wheel with a tired sigh. He didn't want to see it. Had no intention to find a too large amount of Dean's blood outside of his brother's body rather then inside. Again. But curiosity won and Sam straightened and shifted, searching the asphalt through the windshield.

The wave of dread washing over him at the sight of the pretty impressive blood stain a few feet up the road caused him to wince.

What the hell had happened here?

Two possible scenarios: one, Phillip had let Dean go. Just like that. Dean had walked out through the gates and right into a passing car?

Sam doubted it. When all this had happened after a salt'n burn, after a hunt, Dean should have been fully awake and alert. No way would he miss a passing car in such a state.

Two, Dean had escaped, maybe had knocked Phillip out, a tad too timid. Phillip had come to in time to see him run onto the street. And had shot him? No, there weren't any gunshot wounds mentioned, and no one would have believed the staircase story.

The run-over-by-a-car-theory was close. Dean's injuries looked like it – the road burns on his face and hands, the cuts and bruises. So Phillip had either pushed him in front of a passing car or had driven the car himself.

And now the guy was tip-toeing around them, looking like a picture of misery – a good actor or truly sorry, who knew.

Sam clenched his jaw, his left hand tightening on the steering wheel while he turned the key with his white-knuckled right, the Impala roaring to life.

There were some answers to get. And no matter who was going to cross his path first, Dean or Phillip, he was going to get them.

* * *

God, he hurt.

Resting his head against the window pane, Dean gazed into space, relishing the coolness it offered.

The friendly suggestion to leave the bed and spend an hour in the recreation room had turned into an order from Salinger himself, and although Dean was normally the first to flee any hospital bed he would have preferred to stay there, bound with those freakin' leather belts for his sake.

At least there he would have had some kind of peace. He could lie down. He could tell the arrogant little nurse down there to just untwist the pain medication already, could hope for all the pain that currently rushed through him to be dulled by one tiny turn of a switch.

Instead, he sat in the farthest corner of the fun and happy chamber of horrors, wanted nothing more then to pull his knees up close as some kind of shield but unable to do so because of the length of his legs and the small seating surface of the hard plastic chair.

His head was killing him, the half of his face was burning like fire. The bandaged wrist throbbed in tune with his heart that seemed to have taken pleasure in racing lately. And he was bone tired. Which was hardly surprising after last night's events.

Problem was that he couldn't close his eyes.

The moment his heavy eyelids drooped, the second the world went blissfully dark, they were there. As if they had never been somewhere else. The faces. Familiar. Suppressed. Distorted grimaces screaming at him, accusing him, souls rueing the day he had been sent downstairs, had been reborn as a child of hell.

Voices, singing, laughing, crying, howling, a constant buzzing of turmoil and pain was his companion since he had woken up in that hospital ward. Quiet and barely audible at first, it's volume increasing with every hour, threatening to erode his sanity like salt water eroded a sunken ship.

Right now he had the feeling he was truly going insane.

Blinking sluggishly, Dean looked around, took in the hustle and bustle in the room. The flower lady was back – or maybe she had never left – this time drawing huge purple circles on a big silk cloth, all the time humming 'Praise to Joy'. A few feet to the left an elderly man walked around a table. Round and round, concentrated in counting his steps aloud. When he reached number 421 he began to cry. Only a couple of seconds before he stopped and started to count again, beginning with 1.

This room was like a freakin' ant hill. A freakin' hurry-scurry of limbs and sounds and frames of minds. Damnit, how long? For how long was he going to be here? How long before Phillip would come and get him out? Before Sam or Bobby would find a way?

Scanning the room once more he froze when he noticed the evil-looking kid sitting at a table. Staring at him, of course. Killing him with his eyes.

The demon.

Dean didn't hesitate. He knew it was a bad idea, knew this was everything but advised and smart. But somehow he just couldn't care less. Pushing himself up on shaky legs he met the demon's glare and held it, answered it with one of his own nasty looks. He watched the kid cock his head and stand, too, challenging him.

The hunter in him warned him. Not the place to take a demon on. Not the condition. No weapons at hand. The reasonable Winchester in him wagged a finger. He was going to slide only deeper into this mess.

But Dean was angry. He had it up to here. With everything. Drugs he didn't want to take, but couldn't get through the day without because of headaches and fucking insomnia and all that crap. Pale people dressed in white. Even paler people dressed in pajamas. Voices of lost souls bugging him. Damn dead Mike being his shadow the whole time, teasing him, mocking him, driving him crazy. A brother who was too occupied banging a demon chick to find a way to help him.

Damn you Sam. Damn you Cas. Damn you all.

Dean didn't remember how he got from his table to the middle of the room. If he had stomped or walked or flown. It didn't matter. What did matter though was the fact that the demon-kid was right in front of him, withing 'smashing-his-innocent-face-in' range, and for the first time since this crappy day had started Dean felt something resembling joy.

He balled his hands to fists, ignored the burning sensation on his grazed knuckles. The kid had to look up at him, which didn't make his glare less scary, a look only deadly enemies would exchange.

"What's on your mind, torture master?" he spat, taking a menacing step closer, intruding Dean's personal space, "Are you bored? Didn't find a cockroach to tear it's legs off?"

"What's your problem, princess?" Dean replied, not even flinching once, "Lost contact to your hive? Missed the order to kill me already?"

A tiny flicker of confusion flew over the kid's face, being immediately cloaked by a frosty smile. "I don't know what you're talking about Dean, but death is far too generous for you, for what you did."

From the corner of his eye Dean noticed someone approaching them.

"Dean. Julian. What seems to be the problem here?" That understanding tone again. The misshapen sandcastle chime.

Back off, sister.

"We're perfectly fine here, Mrs. Fowler", the kid _the demon_ replied in a sickly sweet voice, never leaving Dean out of his sight, "just talkin'."

"Yes Julian, I can see that. But how about the both of you sit down and have that talk in a, let's say more friendly demeanor? You two seem a bit displeased to me."

Another figure appeared in Dean's periphery, hovering beside him.

You, too. Back off.

When the person touched his shoulder, pushing him back softly, he almost lashed out.

"Come on now", Mrs. Fowler said, pushing the kid backwards into the other direction, building up some distance between him and Dean, "let's take a walk, Julian."

"You deserve to be on that rack again", Julian yelled suddenly at Dean, baring his teeth, causing Mrs. Fowler to jump with fright, "you deserve to suffer, to burn, to die over and over again, to wake up only to know that it won't stop as long as the world keeps on turning, you masochistic son of a bitch!"

For a moment no one said a word. A few whimpers were heard. Someone was chuckling. The flower lady was still humming. Dean felt eyes on him. Poking him like little searing hot needles. Accusing him. Faces, familiar. Distorted grimaces screaming at him. Souls rueing the day he had been sent downstairs.

And he snapped.

With a growl, forming as a low rumble deep down in his throat, then increasing it's volume and intensity to an outcry of blind rage Dean lunged forward, throwing his whole body weight against the lanky Julian. Both men landed on the table in a tangled heap, breaking it, the sound of bursting wood accompanied by Julian's surprised grunt and the agitated hues and cries of the other patients.

Dean was caught in a frenzy. He knew it and he welcomed it with every fiber of his body. Screw reason. Screw everything. If everybody figured him for a nut job, to hell with it, here he was. Every blow he sent down onto the demon's face, every pained gasp and whimper reaching Dean's ears was a gift, a satisfying, edifying driblet of oil into the fire that was his unbalanced mind.

"I've been there", Dean hissed, straddling the kid, pummeling on and on, ignoring the voices around him, the hands grabbing at him, "I've been there longer than anyone can imagine, I held on longer than humanly possible, I know all kinds of pain and agony, trust me, I do."

Someone slung a pair of arms around his chest, tried to pull him away. Without hesitation Dean threw his head back forcefully, felt his skull connecting with something. A surprised squeal later the arms vanished and he had once again room to move.

Bending down, he gripped Julian's bloody collar, yanking him up, shaking him, the kid's hands clawing weakly at his own.

"What I did was horrible and I pay for it every damn single day, every time I look in the mirror, every time I lay me down to sleep...the things I've done are haunting me and god knows I want to apologize, I want to undo what I've done, but I can't I just can't."

Dean felt tears streaming down his cheeks, his voice wavering. But he was bubbling with wrath.

"I don't know what you guys want from me, I just can't wrap my messed up brain around this whole stalking and staring crap but in between all those things that are a complete mystery to me I know one thing for sure..." He slammed the demon's head onto the floor once, relished it's anguished howl and pulled it's head close to his face.

"Go to hell..." Dean spat into Julian's grimace, contorted with pain, before he started to chant an exorcism, looking straight into the demon's eyes, pronouncing every latin word loud and clear.

But with every word he spoke, the feeling that something was just not right grew stronger and stronger. Through his haze Dean noticed Julian had begun to cry as well, thick tear drops running down his temples, glassy orbs staring up at him. His bloody lips were moving, whimpers and begging creeping through Dean's chanting.

Since when did demons cry? Since when did they beg?

Dean broke off, searched Julian's battered features wide eyed. "Christo...?" he whispered, dreadful realization dawning. Nothing happened. No flinch. No outcry. No swearing. Nothing. Julian just kept on staring, raised trembling hands in a protective manner.

A sardonic laughter rang out and Dean jerked his head up, startled when he found Mike standing there, leaning casually against another table with his arms crossed. No one else seemed to have noticed his appearance, no one regarded him.

_Big mistake, kiddo_ he piped and chuckled on.

Dean shook his head in disbelief, darting his eyes back to Julian who let out a small gasp before his eyes rolled back and he went completely limp.

"Oh god", Dean whispered, lowering the unmoving figure to the ground carefully before he pulled his blood-smeared hands close, inspecting them, stricken with terror.

What had he done? Oh god, what had he done?

_You see,_y_ou can domesticate a tiger, can make it jump through burning hoops, but it's still a predator. _Within the blink of an eye Mike was right in Dean's face._ It's matter of time before the true instincts break through._

Dean recoiled, slamming into something behind him. At the same time the arms were back, multiplied, grabbing him, holding him tight. And while one part of him was too tired and defeated for any resistance, even welcomed whatever or whoever held him back from doing any more harm, the other part still fought back, causing him to buck and kick out.

He found himself in a stranglehold. Felt a sting at his neck. A warm, excruciating sensation spreading from the spot.

His limbs disobeyed and his world turned black.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	18. Chapter 18

_New Sunday, new chapter. Gonna make this short, Im sure you're all excited to read. A giiiiiaaaaaaaant thanks for all of you who're reading and taking the time to leave a review! All you lovely people out there!_

* * *

**Chapter 18**

* * *

Sam had a feeling of déjà vu.

He was on his way to Salinger. Again. After receiving a mystery call concerning his brother. Again. Only this time there was no mention of any accidents. But somehow this didn't reassure him in the slightest.

Leaving the elevator and jogging down the hallway to Salinger's office – again – he studied all possibilities. Dean was certainly still in the hospital ward, in bed, resting, so Sam was sure there hadn't been any trouble with other patients or the staff. Okay, so maybe he had gotten into an argument with that cocky nurse and Sam couldn't even blame Dean for it. That woman was such a broom.

But maybe there had been a change in his condition, and that was a road Sam just didn't want to go down right now. Road being the catchword here, because his brother had been hit by a car, for god's sake. It was a damn miracle that his injuries had been that superficial, there could have been much more damage quite easily.

Sam reached Salinger's door and took a deep breath before he knocked and entered without waiting for the other man's reply.

Salinger sat at his desk, talking to someone on the phone. He motioned Sam to come closer and take a seat with a stern face.

"This wasn't my question, what I need to know is if we're able to treat him here, can we handle this or shall we transfer him over to St. Mary's?"

Sam sank down onto the chair that must had an imprint of his butt on it's seating surface up to now, concerning how often he sat in here. He pricked his ears, tried to catch the words the other person said, but didn't succeed.

This didn't sound good. At all.

"Yes, I'd appreciate that. Thank you." Salinger hung up and interlaced his fingers, looking at Sam intently.

"Is Dean okay?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice even. He had a really nasty feeling about this.

Salinger licked his lips. "Actually, I'm not quite sure how he is", he stated, "do you remember the conversations you had with him? Did he talk to you about how he feels, if there's something bothering him?"

Sam almost laughed out loud. What kind of question was that?

"Even if he did", he replied, adjusting his tone to his highly reserved dialog partner, "you do know that I'm not obliged to tell you, right?" As the question, so the answer.

Salinger nodded and Sam could see a muscle jump in the man's jaw.

"One of our patients lies in the hospital ward, completely knocked up. Broken nose, broken jaw, cracked cheekbone, a few teeth missing, take your pick. We're currently debating whether we can take care of him here at all or if he needs to be in an intensive care unit."

Sam blinked, the words sinking in. "You wanna say Dean did this?" he asked in disbelief.

"Dean was in the recreation room on my advice", the doctor continued, "there he got into some kind of argument with the patient who's fighting for his life right now."

"What kind of argument?"

"The nurses didn't hear the quietly spoken parts", Salinger answered and pulled a sheet of paper close that lay on his desk, reading aloud, "but at some point Julian – that's the other patient – had been shouting, 'You deserve to be on that rack again' or something like that, that Dean deserved to suffer and die and that he's a masochistic son of a bitch."

Sam felt abruptly sick. As if some invisible fist had punched him right into the guts.

"Well, and that was enough for Dean to run berserk. According to the nurses and orderlies he was like a machine, they haven't even been able to get him off Julian, they had tried to stop him, hold him, but he was just..." Salinger shook his head and pulled his glasses off dejectedly.

The two men lapsed into heavy silence. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam closed his eyes. There were so many questions forming in his head while the answers were already there as well. At least a few. For example if there had been a demon around.

"Doctor Salinger", he began, clearing his throat, "did Dean say anything while he...I mean...during that whole incident?"

The doctor nodded. "He had been talking all the time, unfortunately the people around didn't get everything. Mrs. Fowler, our senior nurse, said he was speaking Latin at some point."

Talking about wrong place, wrong time. Exorcising a demon in a crowded room. Geez, Dean.

Sam took a deep breath, knowing that his next question might sound a bit weird in Salinger's ears. "Did something happen?"

The elder man just gaped at him blankly. "I'm not quite sure if I understand that question. No, of course nothing had happened. Except of Dean switching from aggressive to lamblike in the blink of an eye, that is."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam narrowed his eyes.

"Well, the nurses say he had stopped at some point, as if he had realized what he had done. Like waking up from noctambulism and finding oneself in the kitchen instead of the own bed."

Now that was strange. Nothing had happened? A demon leaving it's host was surely something that didn't get by unnoticed. Except there hadn't been one in the first place...

"Nurse Fowler also thinks Dean might have been seeing things, maybe a person. He was looking at someone or something, backing away from it. But there hadn't been anything, just a table and the wall."

This was the moment Sam couldn't keep up the kick-ass psychiatrist facade. Shoulders slumping, he leaned forward, his upper body suddenly too heavy, and rested his elbows on his knees, running tired hands over his face in a gesture of defeat.

He was at his wit's end. It seemed as if every day got worse and worse, his brother standing in the middle of a greedy swamp, sinking deeper inch after inch while Sam always came running with a rope that turned out to be too short every damn time.

"Doctor Larsson, we need to find a way how we can handle Dean." Salinger's voice was understanding, but firm. He definitely had enough, that much Sam realized.

He knew the solution. He knew how to 'handle Dean', how to solve this problem.

Just hand out the keys.

"I'd suggest we fix a date for another session, one that should have taken place much much sooner, I might add."

"Whatever", Sam replied, knowing that the scolding was directed at him, "but right now I want to see my patient."

"Fair enough." Salinger reached for the telephone, ordering someone to take Sam 'to Mr. Rodgers'.

* * *

Sam followed the bulky orderly who just wouldn't stop giving a lecture on the weather and the temperature of the lake, completely lost in thoughts. There were things he could grasp and others he just couldn't.

"...I think we'll get snow this year, I mean, come on, at the rate the temperatures are dropping..."

An exorcism. Yes, okay. But in a room with other people; patients, nurses. Seriously? Okay, the demon had provoked Dean with knowledge so sensitive he had lost it quite rightly.

"...fish stocks might dwindle thanks to the freaking cold and that'd be a real disaster because..."

Since when was Dean that irritable, anyway? Lashing out immediately? Pulpify that kid? Who obviously had been human?

"...do you know those snowblowers? They're really handy, and not expensive at all..."

But then, how did a human, how did that boy know what had happened to Dean, which role his brother had had down there? How did that Julian kid know about all that and not freak out?

Hello. Mental institution, Sam.

The orderly stopped walking and talking at a door that was a lot heavier and more solid then the doors Sam normally went through when he was in here and he noticed for the first time that he was in a section he never had been in before.

"Where are we going?" he asked the key card-fumbling orderly.

"This is the solitary confinement section", came the answer, followed by a dull Slide. Beep. Click.

Sam stayed behind and watched the other man step through the now opened door, stunned. Okay. They meant business with Dean now. What was next, electroshocks?

"Doctor Larsson? You coming?"

Blinking, Sam nodded and followed, trying to ignore the oppressive feeling that crept up in him. It was deadly silent here. No voices. Only the sound of the orderly's and his footsteps on the linoleum covered floor. Heavy doors with tiny windows on the left-hand side, nothing but naked walls with equally tiny windows, providing the hallway with weak daylight on the right.

Reaching the door with a giant '7' painted on it, the orderly looked through the window into the cell before he opened it.

"I'll wait right here. If you've finished, just knock on the door then I'll let you out."

"Thanks", Sam answered and slipped into the cell carefully.

First thing he noticed was the acoustic. The second he was fully inside the small room, every noise became one muted mire, like being under water. Scanning the walls, Sam found the cause of that irritating sound effect.

Padded walls. If you weren't crazy before you'd get it as soon as you had to spent an hour in here.

The sight of his brother however was enough to erase every fit of amusement over the strange hearing sensation.

Dean sat on the floor in the corner of the cell, knees pulled up close to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. His hair was unusual tousled, his skin almost as white as the ever present bandage on his wrist. Dressed in those blue pants and the white shirt he looked so vulnerable all of a sudden, it was horrible to see.

But the most disturbing sight were Dean's eyes. Hooded, dull, the sparkle gone, the usually bright green seas switched to pale brackish water. Dean looked straight at him, but Sam wasn't sure if his brother was seeing him at all.

"Dean?" Sam tried cautiously, stepping towards his sibling tentatively.

"He's dead, right?" Dean asked, his voice so soft and quiet, it shook Sam to the core.

Those damn sons of bitches. What had they done? What the fuck had they done?

Sam took another step closer and sank down onto his knees. "You mean Julian? No, no Dean, he isn't dead. Just a bit banged up, that's all. He'll be okay." Hopefully.

Dean held his gaze, seemed to consider his brother's words. A look that was almost unbearable.

"I could have sworn I've killed him", Dean continued, finally averting his eyes, "I was so angry."

"Dean..."

The elder Winchester raised his hands, held them up for Sam to see. "I felt his bones give way, Sammy. I heard them crunch and break. Because I held the belief that he's a demon. A damn freakin' demon."

Sam swallowed heavily while he watched Dean's eyes water up. The last time he had seen his brother like this had been while he had told him about hell. Only then Dean had held more power somehow. What sat in front of him here had nothing to do with his strong, confident brother.

"He wasn't a demon, I know", Sam said softly, "but Dean, you did what every hunter would have done. That guy...where did he have his intel from if he's not a demon?"

"I could have tried the exorcism before bashing his head in." There was it, a minuscule glimpse of Dean Winchester, a flicker of sarcasm. When he looked at Sam again however, it was gone again. "They're right, Sam. I'm a monster. I'm dangerous."

Sam held his hands up, "Woah, wait a minute, who's right? Who says you're a monster? That's crap, Dean, just bullshit." He ran a desperate hand through his hair, "What's wrong with you, huh? What did they do, what did they give you?"

Dean snorted, "It's not necessary to do anything or give me anything, I'm totally messed up anyway..."

"No, you're not", Sam stated, trying to keep his temper in check, "since when are you that highly sensitive? You couldn't know, you didn't think, you just acted, that's your regular MO since I know you and you were always fine with it, I was fine with it, so stop blaming yourself. The kid's going to be fine, don't worry."

"And that's the point", Dean said quietly, his soft trembling voice a stark contrast to Sam's agitation, "I've been like this since you know me. I've always been like this. You can domesticate a tiger, can make it jump through burning hoops, but it's still a predator..."

"Dean. Stop it." Sam stood abruptly. This whole thing made him want to tear his hair out in hanks. Struggling for words he exhaled forcefully, beginning to pace the small padded cell. He checked the door and the window before he spoke on in a hushed tone. "Listen, I know about the whole escaping thing, that salt'n burn you and Phillip pulled back there. What I need to know is how Phillip got you out of here, okay? Can you tell me that?"

A faint smile appeared on Dean's lips. "Let me guess, you found out by yourself, right? Sly dog, Sammy."

"Shut up. How did you get out?"

"Why?"

Sam stopped his pacing and stared at his broken brother as if he had grown a second head. "Why? Are you serious, Dean? Because when you got out once, you can get out a second time, that's why. And this time I'm going to make sure no one runs you over."

Dean looked back at him, long and searchingly. Sam almost thought he had zonked out when the shook his head slowly. "No."

"No? What, no?"

"I won't get out. I'm staying here."

"You what?" Standing on a carpet being pulled away under your feet was by far less shocking then that.

Dean let out a shaky sigh. "Look Sam, I'm a risk. I'm aggressive, I'm crazy – I'm seeing things, I'm hearing things, I'm swayed by them." Sam almost flinched at the raw emotions mirroring in Dean's glassy eyes. "I almost killed someone because I just lost it and I ..." He stopped, running a hand over his face. "Right now me being in here and everyone else being outside...it's the best situation." His voice broke with the last words and he looked away quickly, wiping his eyes.

The silhouette of his brother blurred when Sam felt his own eyes water. Oh god, what had happened here?

He had waited too long, he hadn't gotten Dean out of this damn institution and now nothing was left, only a broken unreasonable shell, talking nonsense, self-esteem trampled down. Dean was a wreck. And this place was responsible for it. He was responsible for it.

"Okay, you know what", Sam started, clearing his throat to get rid of the lump, "This ends. Now. I'm going to take care of this." He turned towards the door and raised a fist, ready to knock.

"Sam? What..."

At Dean's confused tone he hesitated. He turned to his sibling once again.

"Trust me", Sam said, soft again, his wrath against this whole system abating at the sight of Dean's questioning look. When his brother's face lit up the tiniest bit, Sam knew he still had a chance.

"Of course I trust you", Dean whispered, a feeble smile perceptible.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	19. Chapter 19

_Wow. You guys are great, you know that? I know, I know, I already said that. But that doesn't mean you don't deserve it to be said every week, right?_

_So, this one's about Sam. The most of you are asking themselves what the guy's up to and why he has his thumbs up his...you know...lovely butt. He knows that, too. He's totally aware of him doing a crappy job at the moment. Here are some of his thoughts...  
_

* * *

**Chapter 19**

* * *

Pacing. Something he seemed to do very often lately.

This time he paced an alley, not once regarding the beautiful arranged garden surrounding him. Hospital gardens. Mental institution gardens. All the same. He didn't need any of them.

Sam's steps were too vigorous to pass for an attentive stroll. Every now and then he looked up, checking the exit of the building for the person he was waiting for.

He was alone in the garden. Good. No need to be polite then. No need to mask his anger.

Dean's words still reverberated in his ears, the broken, tearful voice causing shivers to run over his spine once more. How could his brother have fallen so deep in such a short amount of time? When they'd had that little argument over the research, the hunt Dean had gotten involved in despite Sam's advice to just leave it, his sibling had been fine. Had been Dean.

Later, in the hospital ward, Sam hadn't noticed a change in his demeanor, either. Still Dean. Maybe a bit confused, but wasn't that to be expected after having such an accident?

What Sam had witnessed back in that cell just now was a completely different person.

Those people. The drugs. This building. Everything here was destroying his brother, poisoning him. Macerating the shields of protection Dean had built up when he had come back from hell. And now all those carefully stowed memories and experiences came boiling up, haunting his brother, threatening to drive him insane.

And he had done jack squat to stop it. For every case he found a solution, for every supernatural thing he found a way to kill it, but he didn't manage to get the most precious person in his fucked up life to freedom.

What kind of brother was he? If tables were turned, Dean would have gotten him out already, he would have shoplifted a tank, would have shot a hole in the damn walls of the building to get him out.

Sam had been useless so far. Moreover he was responsible for Dean's current condition. If he hadn't been that stubborn, would have helped his brother and Phillip out the other night with that hunt, Dean and him would be sitting in the Impala right now, heading as far north as they possibly could.

Tears of anger welled up in Sam's eyes, the guilt engulfing him. "Damnit", he hissed, yanking his head up to check the exit again. He clenched his jaw when the person he was waiting for emerged from the door. Swallowing, he wiped at his eyes, trying to regain his composure.

Phillip spotted him immediately and jogged over, a worried expression on his young features. And not for the first time Sam wondered if the nurse was indeed their enemy.

"Doctor La...I mean, Sam...I came as fast as I could. Sorry for the delay." Phillip skidded to a halt in front of Sam and stretched his hand out.

"Thanks for coming, Phillip", Sam greeted him, his voice holding an icy quality. He took the other man's hand and shook it briefly, reluctantly. "I have a few questions I hope you can answer. Do you have a minute?"

"Sure", Phillip replied and Sam could see from his posture that he was already suspicious – he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall of the building.

"Good. Let's begin with this one: did you run Dean over with a car or do I have to find someone else I have to break the nose?"

Phillip's face cleared from all emotion and color in one fluid motion and Sam was sure he was going to hear the nurse's chin impact with the stone floor any second.

"What..."

"You heard me, Phillip. I know what really happened, I know about your escape, I know about the accident and I know there was no staircase involved." Sam stepped closer into Phillip's personal space, anger propelling him to just knock the guy out or at least choke him a bit, but reason holding him back. "What I want to know now is who's been driving the car and what, when it hadn't been you, was the motive to hit Dean while he was walking along a road at night, unarmed and obviously confused?"

Phillip's mouth opened and closed like that of a stranded fish. "Did Dean tell you that?"

Sam barked out a humorless laugh. "Have you seen him lately? I'm not sure if he still remembers what had happened thanks to all that shit you're pumping into him..."

"Sam, wait", Phillip held his hands up in surrender, "let me explain..."

"I'm all ears."

"Okay, okay. Yes, that staircase story was a lie, a made-up story. But I didn't run Dean over, I'd never do that, to no one, okay? It was an accident, someone just overlooked him, hit him with a car. He got hurt, I tended his wounds and brought him back to this place."

Sam wanted to shout, wanted to shake the other man, ask him why he hadn't brought his brother to his place, to him. He stopped himself. How was Phillip supposed to know? He didn't know their real names, the motel Sam was staying. That Sam wasn't a doctor Larsson at all.

Phillip's expression changed from desperate to insecure. "Do you...uh...do you know why we were out there?" he asked carefully, his tone hushed.

Sam met Phillip's gaze and considered his answer. Friend or foe? Friend? Or foe?

Then he nodded. "Yes. I know. I know about that ghost and the grave you two dug up."

"And you're not...I mean, you're not...you don't think we're...this doesn't sound weird to you?"

"No, I don't, okay? And this is not what I wanna talk about here." Sam let out a sigh. "What about the person that ran Dean over, do we have to fear that he or she might cause trouble?"

Phillip blinked at Sam, seeming to process the fact that he wasn't going to certify him insane right here and now.

"No", the nurse answered and cleared his throat, "no, don't worry."

"What happened? Back there? Did he knock you out and escaped, only to run into a car? What happened?" Sam's tone didn't soften. But the anger towards Phillip had faded.

Phillip stared into thin air. "I...uh...let him go. I let him wander off."

"Why?" Sam asked in disbelief and narrowed his eyes. That just doesn't made sense. At all.

"Why? Because...I don't know...it felt like the right thing to do, that's why." The nurse pushed himself off the wall and ran his hands through his hair, walking past Sam. "I just think...I think Dean doesn't belong in here. I...call it a hunch."

Sam watched Phillip pacing the small path he had paced earlier. Okay. So was it possible that they had met someone who didn't want them dead or locked up or at least suffering for a change? Was it possible that someone really saw them, saw Dean for what he was? Someone who just wanted to help?

"He changed, you know", Phillip continued and chuckled, "who am I talking to, of course you know." He was not looking at Sam but scanning the garden instead, "he's not the person he was when he came here. That night, when the accident happened? There was something going on with him. I heard him crying and sobbing, I guess whatever went on there is the reason he was on the street and the car hit him. And today? This morning? I was looking after him this morning, after I heard what had happened in the recreation room, with Julian." He then turned around, facing Sam. "I swear to God, this isn't Dean. I don't know what they did, but this...it's a downward spiral and I have the feeling I'm a part of it but I don't want to, you know?"

Sam opened his mouth but didn't know what to say.

"I did some thinking, Sam. I love this job. I see myself as some kind of tour guide. The people coming here have lost their ways and it's my job to take their hands and guide them, show them the way, how too get out of here, of this again." Phillip snorted again. "Of course I'm only the guide. The tour operators are Salinger and Rosenberg. And I often don't agree with their methods, but it's not for me to oppose, I'm no specialist." He paused, swallowed. "But with Dean I felt that this whole system's limping. It's not the first case I feel like this but it's the one that hurts me the most. So when we were on that cemetery and he told me about those things that had happened to him, the things he had tried to push back and that exactly those things were back, haunting him, driving him crazy since he's in here..." Phillip stopped and looked away. "I had a gun, you know. I didn't want to let him go at first. My career, all that." When he looked back at him the Winchester almost flinched. "He said I had to shoot him. Dean wanted to be dead rather than being in here. So, tell me, Sam – that system I'm working for...I'm working with...what's wrong with it? Why isn't it helping people?"

Sam clenched and unclenched his jaw, Phillip's dread, disappointment, incomprehension spreading onto him, the weight of the other man's words threatening to crush him. It seemed as if Dean wasn't the only victim here.

"The drugs Dean's getting", Sam began, his voice disturbingly shaky, "I want to shut down all the medication he gets. Discontinuation. Now."

Phillip answered him with a sad smile. "If it were so easy..."

"Oh, it is. No pills, no mixtures, and the second I see someone with a syringe near him I'm going to show you how it looks like when I go berserk."

"No, Sam, it isn't that easy, you can't just discontinue all the meds at once..."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because there are some drugs with dangerous side effects when the patient stops taking them."

Sam felt his anger spike again. What kind of shit did they give his brother? "What kind of side effects?"

"I'm not sure, I need to check the exact meds he gets, but some can trigger depressions and anxiety states, heavy stuff..."

In two long strides Sam was right in Phillip's face, gripping his collar and yanking him around against the wall where the nurse impacted with a painful grunt.

"Do you have the feeling those magic pills you're forcing down his throat make him all funny and happy? Does he look not-depressive to you?"

"No...but Sam..."

"It's worth a try, right? You said yourself, you're not sure about the side-effects. And as long as he's down there in that rubber room I don't think he can lay hands upon himself, right?"

"He can't."

Sam nodded and let go of Phillip. "Okay", he hissed, "Cold turkey. Do it. And I want you to have an eye on him whenever I can't, you understand? And as soon as he's clear in the head again we take it from here. "

Phillip didn't say a word, just gave a curt nod in return.

God, he felt like an ass. There he was, manhandling the only ally they had in this. Him! Famous for the puppy dog eyes and the charming approaches.

"Look, Phillip", Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I'm sorry, okay. I'm just..."

"You're not Dean's psychiatrist, are you?"

The question came so bluntly, so unexpected and still entitled, it caught Sam off guard. He looked up, met Phillip's gaze. The nurse smiled softly.

"It's okay. You don't have to answer. But maybe, when this is all over, we can sit together and have a beer, talk about ghosts and werewolves and have a good time. And maybe you're gonna tell me who you two really are." He licked his lips and checked the building's entrance. "Okay, I need to go now. I'm going to make sure Dean won't get any meds anymore. We just need to make sure Salinger doesn't find out."

Sam looked at the other man. He hadn't felt that grateful for a long time. "Thank you, Phillip. I have to admit I was wrong about you."

Phillip smiled and put him off. "No problem."

When Sam watched him walk away towards the building he stopped him again. "Phillip?"

"Yeah?"

A smirk Dean would be proud of. A set of raised eyebrows. "You don't happen to pass Salinger's office, do you?"

* * *

Sam took a long swig from the bottle, the cool beer refreshing, putting some life into him. His burning eyes kept on scanning the blurring words and passages on the documents that lay spread out on the table in front of him.

Phillip hadn't been very enthralled by Sam's request to smuggle these files out of Salinger's office. Break into the man's room had been risky enough, but making the copies had been a venturous task and when Phillip had slipped Sam the envelope he had some pretty impressive beads of sweat on his forehead.

And now Sam sat here, skimming through the life and therapies of Julian Todd, 25 years of age, held prisoner in between padded walls and therapy sessions since his sister's suicide three years ago.

Working through this stuff was like wading through mud – tons of technical terms Sam needed to look up in the internet, pages over pages filled with gobbledygook certainly no one understood except the person who had written it down. It would have been easier if he would have just talked to the kid, ask him flat out which kind of problem he had with his brother and where he had his knowledge of Dean's past, of hell, of the things that happened down there.

Not happening. Who knew if Julian would wake up ever again?

Sam hadn't seen him, but from what Salinger had told him he knew it was bad. And he knew Dean. Knew his strength, he had been on the receiving end of his brother's rage often enough himself and he was Dean's baby brother. Which meant the shiners and bloody noses and bursted lips had always been results of the softer punches.

Dean fighting what he had assumed to be a demon? For minutes? That didn't bear contemplating. That kid was a goner.

Sam sighed, dropped the page he had been currently reading onto the table and rubbed his eyes.

Damnit, Dean. Leaving him back there in that stuffed broom closet had been one of the hardest things for Sam to do since this mess had started. It had been hard enough when Sam had noticed his brother's unease and subliminal panic during the first days. But then it had been Dean. At least there had been a whiff of the famous Dean-Winchester-mask-of-nonchalance.

That mask was gone now. The nonchalance was blown to hell. Literally. Sam wasn't sure what had been the trigger, what had pushed his sibling so close to the edge, if it had been the accident or the drugs or everything in combination – but Julian had been the one shoving him over. And Sam knew that the explanation he was looking for was right here, somewhere buried between all those terms and empty phrases printed out in front of him.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	20. Chapter 20

_Lovely Sunday to all of you out there! Yeah, I know. It's still Saturday (at least here in Germany) but I'm in the mood to post. Hope you'll like...this one's quite the nail-biter, I think...Enjoy!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 20**

* * *

Glassy eyes followed the swing of the shiny pendulum. Left. Right. Left. Right. Accentuated by the soft _tic, tac_ of the clock it was something worth to focus on. Calming. Enough to divert and pool his thoughts to something entirely else instead of the thousands of questions and worries that were crawling around in his head like an army of busy bees on a honey comb.

Where was Sam? Why wasn't he here? Why didn't Sam tell him that there was an appointment with Salinger? Who wasn't here also. Damnit. Why was he sitting in here alone, without Sam?

Oh please, no session. Not today.

Dean reached up to his temple, rubbing it frantically with his free hand. Phillip hadn't given him his meds today. Last night he hadn't gotten the obligatory sleeping pills, either. Not that Dean wasn't happy with it. He had no intentions to call for that crap. But it wasn't helping lying awake the whole night, freaking Mike sitting beside him, talking and talking and just not shutting up, the words so vivid he had cried and sobbed and at some point had thrown up, a painful, unnecessary endeavor as there hadn't been anything to throw up besides of bile.

He shifted on the chair that hardly left him room to move. Both his ankles were bound, left ankle to the left chair leg, right ankle to the right with those uncomfortable leather belts he had learned to hate. His left hand was equally shackled, the wrist bound to the armrest. His injured right wrist was free, probably because of the dressings. Or maybe he could at least scratch his nose. Who designed such a thing?

God, he was so tired. And done. He felt like a zombie. A damn headache splitting his head every time he accidently moved it. This was a nightmare and he had no clue how to wake up.

Why wouldn't he wake up? Why did no one wake him? Sam? Sammy? Where are you, man? Don't leave me alone in this!

He heard the steps first before the door opened. He turned as far as he could, his stomach plummeting into the basement when he recognized exact those two men enter the room he had dreaded to meet the most.

"Dean", Salinger greeted him with a curt nod and a stern face. Rosenberg didn't do or say anything. Just regarded him with those small, vicious eyes.

The doctors walked around him and sat down on two chairs opposite of Dean, Rosenberg still watching him like a hawk, Salinger fumbling with some sheets of paper.

"Where's..." My brother? Sammy? Where are you? "...doctor Larsson, shouldn't he be here, too?" His voice had that awkward quality again. Too soft. Too raspy. Sounded like he felt.

"Doctor Larsson isn't here right now and we think it's actually a good thing, Dean."

Dean's breathing hitched. You think? Stop thinking. "I don't care if it's a good or bad thing, I'd really appreciate to have him around..."

"I don't think that you're in the position to demand anything, Mr. Rodgers." Rosenberg interrupted calmly. The man was pissed. Dean knew the doctor hadn't been a fan of him anyway but now Rosenberg clearly hated him.

And Dean couldn't even blame him. He had screwed up. Big time. He himself didn't want to look in the mirror right now.

"How are you, Dean?" Salinger asked, a genuine smile on his face. He pointed at the leather belts keeping Dean to the chair, "I have to apologize for this, but as we don't want any security staff in here during a session this is the only way. We just can't trust you at the moment, I hope you understand."

Sam? Help me out...

"When was the last time you ate?" Salinger asked on, looking honestly concerned.

Dean shook his head slowly. "I'm not hungry."

"This wasn't my question, Dean. See, it's not the question if you're hungry or not, you have to eat, son. It's important that..."

"Maybe you can tell us what happened back in the recreation room from your point of view. Can you give us that much?" Rosenberg leaned forward, unfazed by Salinger's irritated look.

"You know what happened", Dean replied. Careful now.

"Yes, we know, but humor us nonetheless."

Dean paused, took a breath. "Let's say I had a temper tantrum." It had been supposed to come out as a cheeky remark, completely with scornful tone and raised eyebrow. It didn't. He almost didn't hear himself say anything at all.

_Oh yeah, and we all know how those go!_

Dean flinched. He knew that last part had been inaudible to the doctors. And to the rest of the world.

Mike. Get lost.

"A temper tantrum?" Rosenberg exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in disbelief, "Then I don't want to be anywhere near you when you get really mad, son."

_I hear you, granny, I hear you._

"Listen", Dean started, closing his eyes briefly and rubbing his temple, "I know what I did was wrong, I overreacted and I'm terribly sorry. If it's possible I'd like to see the kid, talk to him..."

_Maybe break a few more bones..._

"Damnit, shut up!"

"Dean? What was that?"

Dean jerked his head up, wide eyes darting from Salinger to Rosenberg. Had he said that loud?

He needed to get out of here. This room was suffocating him.

"Nothing...just...listen, could we skip this for now, I don't feel so good..."

"No, Dean, we won't skip this. I'm glad to hear that you're sorry and that you like to apologize but right now it's not possible, I'm afraid."

_Maybe you killed him after all? Maybe Sam lied to you? Maybe he didn't want to spook you further and that tiny, fragile brain of yours?_

"I really need to speak to doctor Larsson. Please. I'd prefer to have him here for this."

There was a pause during which Salinger noted something on a notepad and Rosenberg scratched his head with a tired sigh.

"Doctor Larsson decided to hand this case over to us", Rosenberg then stated dryly, "You're no longer his patient."

Dean felt his heart stop. What? They were messing with him, right? They were lying?

He gaped at Rosenberg, searched the wrinkled face for any evidence whether the man was telling the truth or joking. He met Dean's distraught gaze deadly serious.

"Charles..." Dean thought he heard Salinger mumble, thought he saw the 'good doctor' shake his head ever so slightly.

"I'm sorry, doctor Larsson wanted to tell you by himself, but we suggested it'd be better if he'd just leave that to us."

No way. Never ever would Sam leave him here, not like this, not ever. Period. They were toying with him. Checking how far they could get, check out when he would snap.

Dean shook his head, tried to muster up some bravery. It was terribly appalling how hard that little task was.

"No", he stated, swallowing hard in order to slug down that tremor in his voice, "You're lying, he wouldn't do that."

"Then why, Mr. Rodgers, isn't he here? Why would he let you have this session on your own? Do you have a proper explanation for that?"

The reasonable part of Dean's brain that still held the fort was screaming again. And it was screaming loud. It was hollering every rational explanation it could come up with at him. They just didn't inform Sam about this session, that's why he isn't here. They want to break you. They can only do that when you're alone. This is a set-up, look at Salinger, he's insecure. Don't listen to their crap.

_Why, Dean, are you so fond of yourself, huh? Your brother doesn't have to stick with you for the rest of his life, it's not that you're such a special person, you know._

Mike appeared behind the two doctors who stared at Dean as if he were some interesting specimen. A smug smile was gracing his pale features. His arms in the torn sleeves of the shredded suit crossed in front of his chest.

Dean closed his eyes, lowered his head, pressed the heel of his free hand onto his temple.

"Mr. Rodgers?"

_To see you like this is like christmas, you know that? You're a wreck. And Sam noticed that, too. You're a burden now. He's better off alone. He has his demon lady. He's powerful. He doesn't need you anymore. Never needed you. _

"Dean? Are you still with us?"

_See it like a baby hatch. Instead of throwing you into a dumpster or abandon you at some motel he drops you here. So he knows you won't starve or freeze to death. And maybe those two here can really help you._

"Fine", Dean growled, maybe a tad too emphatically, "what about...what's his name? Julian? Can you tell me at least how he is?" He would deal with Sam later. Get him here somehow later. Sort this out with him. Later.

He noticed a tear rolling down his cheek and wiped it away angrily.

Salinger opened his mouth to speak when Rosenberg held his hand up and leaned forward. "What would it change? What would you tell him?" The doctor's voice was almost a hiss.

Dean met his gaze or at least tried to, his blurring sight making it hard for him to see his opponent's eyes.

_You're such a sentimentalist, Dean-o. Never would've thought that._

"I'd..." Dean interrupted Mike's voice and took a hitching breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob before he tried again through gritted teeth, "I already said that I want to apologize. I'd like to talk to him and sort things out."

"With words or with fists, Mr. Rodgers?"

"Damnit, I'm..." Dean stopped himself and ran a shaky hand over his hair and face. It was getting harder and harder to stay calm, he felt like a table tennis ball bouncing from the rage paddle over to the deep sadness paddle, back and forth, back and forth and he couldn't stop.

Rosenberg sat back in his chair and just looked at him. Dean felt the urge to squirm under the man's eyes, the glare in combination with the deafening silence causing his skin to crawl.

"Julian died this morning, Dean. I think you understand why we can't confirm to your wishes."

Like dropping from a cliff into icy water. That was exactly the way it felt. This weird feeling of falling, where the stomach jumps. Then hitting an unnaturally hard water surface, the impact rattling the bones and teeth, the cold liquid clawing at the face, ripping the eyelids up, entering and burning the eyes. Sinking. Deeper. And deeper. Too much time to think. Too little time to react.

Dean stared at Rosenberg, paralyzed by shock and disbelief. The only thing moving was his trembling chin. And right now he condemned the fact that he wasn't in any icy water. Wasn't sinking deeper and deeper. Couldn't wait for his conscious to fade.

_Speechless, kiddo? Always said, your right hook's just too dangerous. You should have a firearm certificate for it._

"Dean? Did you hear what I said?"

What had he done? How could this have happened? He had killed an innocent man. A kid. Because of a mistaken identity.

Mike appeared right in front of him, bared his teeth at Dean and held his clawed hands up. He made a growling sound.

_The tiger's free now. Instincts, hooray!_

"No", Dean whispered, shaking his head in denial, "no, I...oh god, I didn't mean to..." This time he didn't bother to wipe the tears away streaming down his face.

"I don't think this was necessary, Charles", he heard Salinger mumble before the doctor addressed him, "Dean, what doctor Rosenberg meant to say..."

"My highly regarded colleague, on a word, please", Rosenberg interrupted and stood, walking out of Dean's line of sight.

Dean didn't look up, kept staring into thin air, the world a blur. He noticed that Salinger didn't follow right away, seemed to hesitate, but he just didn't care right now.

Nothing mattered anymore, right? So he was a monster, a killer, he was capable of beating a young, harmless, innocent man to death. Sam had noticed it soon enough and had decided to turn his back on him.

Fair enough. The best decision his kid brother had ever made, actually.

Dean tried to bury his face in his hands, but when his left one was pulled back by the leather strap an angry sob elicited from his throat and he yanked viciously at his restraints.

Cas shouldn't have brought him back. He should have let him rot in hell, should have dragged him far deeper into the pit, somewhere into the darkest, most sinister corner hell has to offer.

He shouldn't be here. He didn't deserve to be here. To be alive.

_Look at the doctors over there. They're talking about you. Considering what to do with you. What are they supposed to do with an animal out of control, huh?_

Dean looked up sluggishly, spotted the two silhouettes at the other side of the room through the veil of tears blocking his view. They were talking. Arguing over something. He could hear them whisper and hiss, saw them flourish their hands.

"At least have the decency to talk out loud if you're talking about me", he half-growled, half-sobbed, yanking at his restrained hand again, whimpering when the forceful move hurt the tender skin of his wrist.

The two men stopped talking and seemed to look over at him. One of the blurry figures approached him and Dean found himself shrinking back.

"Dean, I think we should skip this session for now." Salinger. Calm and friendly. Almost soothing. "How about you return to your cell, what do you say?"

Dean almost cried in relief. "Yes. Yes, thank you."

"And I'd like to give you something to calm you down a bit, you're a tad too agitated..." Salinger skimmed through a pile of files. "Let's see...you got your TCAs this morning at eight so we can't give you the..."

"No, please...I don't want to take something..." There was a shimmer of his old self, a flicker of the Winchester defiance flaring up. He cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes to meet Salinger's gaze. "I'm glad I didn't get anything today and I want to keep it that way."

The doctor looked at him, narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, you didn't get anything today? You didn't get your medication today?"

Mike jumped up and down on his heels, chuckling. _Uh-huhuhuhuhu...I think something's going on here, I can smell it!_

Dean shook his head slowly. "No. And I don't want anything." The feeling of suffocation clawed at him again. Please, why couldn't they just leave him alone now. He needed to be alone. He needed to curl himself up and just cry himself to sleep. Or die.

He tilted forwards, the heel of his free hand pressed against his temple. Salinger was mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like a rant, answered by Rosenberg who sat down on his chair again. Dean couldn't understand, they were talking too fast, too slurry, there were too many voices, merging into each other, too loud, too much, please, too much.

"...don't know what to say..."

_You deserve to be on that rack again..._

"...that explains a lot when I look at him..."

_What's on your mind, torture master?_

"...back..."

_Dean...please...don't you do this...I never did anything wrong...I'm pleading for mercy! Please, no!_

"...get him into my office..."

_Are you bored? Didn't find a cockroach to tear it's legs off?_

"...explanation..."

_You deserve to suffer, to burn, to die over and over again, to wake up only to know that it won't stop as long as the world keeps on turning, you masochistic son of a bitch!_

The scream that tore from his throat was so intense Dean almost felt his vocal chords go up in flames. He leaped forward, panic, despair and the terrible urge to get out of here shutting down his mind completely. With his ankles still restrained he fell forward, pulling the whole chair with him.

The impact with the floor was hard, but the pain was welcome. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, relished the waves of agony running through his body, the protests of his barely healed face. The metallic taste in his mouth, the smell of blood in his nose was like an old friend. Always there. Never gone. Never leaving.

There were still voices, narrowed down to two, agitated, commanding. There were hands, frantic but gentle, touching his back, fumbling with something at his ankles. Dean kept his eyes shut, he didn't want to see. Everything was muffled, which he was grateful for, he didn't want to hear. He didn't move, just lay there, as if asleep.

A third voice, the owner obviously a recipient of orders, suddenly close to him. A new set of hands gripping him, not anywhere near gentle. Dean felt himself being moved, being pulled up to his feet and down again into sitting position.

He felt a sting at his neck and it was the moment he decided to break out of his catatonic state, because no, no way, he didn't want that crap inside of him anymore, don't you dare put anything inside of me, you bastard, let me go, leave me alone.

"Shall I get a straitjacket, doctor?"

Now that he wanted to move, needed to move, his body betrayed him. Dean fought, he yelled, he flailed. But those actions never left his head.

"I don't think this will be necessary, Griffin, thank you. This is going to knock him out long enough. Just get him into his cell, take care of his nose and lip."

Sam? Sammy? Why did you leave? Why didn't you get me out?

"And no one is allowed to see him, do I make myself clear? No one."

"Yessir. Clear."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	21. Chapter 21

_Huh. The pitfalls of technology. I apologize for the delayed posting even if it hasn't been my fault. Seems like FF has some technical troubles and along with me everyone else isn't able to post anything. One big THANK YOU goes out to BranchSuper at this point because she helped me out, so thanks to her I'm able to post again._

_And because you guys had to wait so long and I am just so happy to update and because I want to reward my new hero Branch__Super (one big huf up to Cape Breton Island!), I'm going to post two chapters now. So, this is number one...and hopefully I'm able to post number two right afterwards...__  
_

_Oh, and before I forget: once again I have to say you guys are amazing, you know that, right? I'm blessed to have you around with all your lovely reviews and encouragements. Thank you so so much!_

_Hope you like this one! Enjoy!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 21**

* * *

When Sam stepped carefully into the room he could feel a set of suspicious eyes drilling holes into his back.

That damn nurse. Next time he was going to give her a few dollars more, providing that she stuck her nose into a fashion magazine or took a cigarette break. Sam could only hope it had been enough to keep her from calling Salinger and report that Mr. Rodgers' psychiatrist was here for a little meet and greet with a patient who was absolutely none of his business.

The room looked exactly like the one Dean had lain in – the same layout, the same smells and noises, the same machines. Only that these were turned on, making their _beeps_ and _wooshs_ and _hisses_. Approaching the bed Sam was relieved to see the figure laying in between the sheets turn his head to him, albeit slow and obviously pained.

So he was awake. Good.

Sam smiled at the kid and lowered himself on the chair next to the head end. He was glad he didn't wear the suit this time. It would have built up an unwelcome poisonous distance.

Julian watched him warily with one good eye, the other swollen shut and hard to find. His whole face was hidden under countless dressings and medical strips, only parts of his cheeks, his nostrils and lips visible.

Sam cringed at the sorry sight. Okay, Dean had been pissed off. Royally.

"Who're you?" the fragile person asked, and Sam leaned closer. Julian's voice was barely above a slurred whisper, almost no strength behind the words. But at the same time, those slurred syllables held everything Julian must feel right now. Distrust. Confusion. Caution.

"I'm Sam", the younger Winchester answered softly, "I'm sorry I have to bother you. How are you feeling?"

Julian made a noise that might have been a snort and turned his head away.

Okay. So much for a soft approach. Maybe no beating around the bush then.

"Look, I know what happened to you", Sam began, "those...differences you had with the other patient, Dean Rodgers..."

The way Julian jerked his head back at him was so surprisingly fast Sam flinched. "Differences? The asshole almost beat me to death."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Did your sister tell you about him?"

Julian's heated glare turned into wide-eyed astonishment. The dressings on his face sagged the tiniest bit, along with his features.

"What?" A whisper, even quieter than before.

"Your sister, Sadie, she knows Dean. She met him, am I right, Julian?"

"My sister's dead..."

"Yes, I know. Look Julian, I know about her. I know what happened to her, that she killed herself. That she's in hell."

Julian flinched at the mention of the place, but held Sam's gaze. "Who are you? What are you up to? Are you one of Salinger's new secret weapons? A new kind of psycho-doc, trying the 'I'm your friend, you can trust me'-way?"

Now it was Sam's turn to snort. "None of the above, that's for sure."

"So? What is this about, then? You have no right to..."

"I believe you, Julian. I know you're in here because no one else did, but I believe you because I know that it's real. Hell? I know that it exists. Trust me, I know. I've seen what it does to people. The connection between your sister and you? I know that things like this are possible. I've read your files and I never doubted a single thing I've read in there."

Julian didn't react, just continued to stare at Sam. The Winchester could see the other man's eyes water.

"That's actually good for you", he sobbed defiantly, biting his upper lip, "but now that you read my files why are you here? Everything interesting's in there."

"Because I want to hear it from you. In your words. Without any scribbled opinions and notes from some shrink suggesting that you might have this kind of therapy or that kind of medicine." Sam smiled his most genuine smile at the kid. "Please. Just humor me."

Julian averted his eyes and wiped angrily at them. He became silent, seemed to withdraw back into himself.

Sam couldn't blame him. There he was, a complete stranger, telling that kid that he knew about the very things that had landed him on the funny farm, on top of that believing him! Wanting to know the crazy story from him, in technicolor and Dolby Surround.

Maybe that was too much to ask. Maybe Sam should consider himself satisfied with the story he had read in the files, figuring out the last bits that were missing in this puzzle on his own. He was about to stand when Julian raised his head and took a feeble breath.

"Sadie and me, we had such a strong bond", he began shakily, almost inaudible, "I was her baby brother but I was her rock all the same. From the cradle. But when she got that job...and got those problems...not even I was able to help her. I tried so hard, but..." He stopped, raised a fine-boned hand to his face and wiped gingerly at his eyes.

Sam leaned forward, considered to touch Julian's shoulder in a gesture of sympathy but decided to let it go. He remembered the circumstances of Sadie's death from the reports and swallowed. When he had read about her in Julian's files the fate of Sadie Todd had shook him to the core.

A young woman, a freshly graduated police officer, the first job. She might have had the right attitude, the right education, the necessary passion for it. The only thing that had been wrong with her had been her sex.

Her co-worker's bullying had went on for months. A wide range of crap, from sexist remarks up to denigrations and rough treatments. Sadie's superiors hadn't intervened. Her request to be transferred to another precinct had been rejected over and over.

In the end Sadie had been demoralized. Destroyed. Ashamed. And she had seen no other alternative.

"It had started a few weeks after her funeral", Julian went on, calm and collected now, "I saw her in my dreams. She talked to me. I thought it were only dreams, but at some point I realized it weren't." He looked up, a dull but excited sparkling in his eyes. "We were able to communicate. In real-time. I read books, searched the internet to find a way to talk to her and...it worked. The only thing I had to do was to sleep.

"And then I made the mistake to call our parents. To tell them about the connection between Sadie and me. That's how I landed in here. They thought I had lost my mind."

Sam frowned. "You could've backpedalled. Could've told them and your therapist that you've been wrong about the whole thing."

Julian looked sadly up at him. "And deny my sister? I'd never do that."

A silence ensued between the two men. From the corner of is eye Sam saw the nurse pace her little office, obviously nervous and displeased about the duration of Sam's stay.

"I can see only her, never her surroundings", Julian continued, "She knows exactly where she is. She told me about the place, told me she's in hell, told me about the demons and all the creatures. That she isn't alone down there, that there are so many people, souls, some deserving to be there, some not. She was never happy but from one day to the other she changed. Suddenly Sadie was scared, agonized, in pain."

Sam's breathing hitched. He knew what was about to come.

"What she told me...I almost couldn't stand it. I didn't want to hear it. But I listened. Every night. Every midday nap, I listened. Falling asleep meant to see her battered body, her blood-soaked hair, her shredded skin. I even reached a point I didn't want to sleep anymore because I just couldn't hear Sadie talk about the things she endured, couldn't see her destroyed frame anymore.

"She changed so much. She got angry with me, she screamed at me for not helping her, for leaving her down there, for knowing what went on and not doing a single thing. But what were I supposed to do? Huh? What in the world could I have done to help her?"

Now it was Sam's turn to avert his eyes. He looked to the floor, feeling slightly nauseous. If it was so hard to listen to this, how must it have felt to actually be there?

"She got away then...I don't know, a different spot in the pit, I don't know how it works. And she healed. Physically. But the things she had gone through? Those are etched on the memory, hers and mine. And I think she never got over it that I didn't come to help. She's still angry at me, I guess. And I can't blame her. But there came the day it crossed my path. That one soul that had changed over to the opposite camp. Had tortured and martyred not only Sadie, but hundreds, maybe thousands of others down there."

Another small pause. Time for Sam to realize that Dean had indeed caused havoc in so many terrible ways he could have ever imagined.

"How did..." he rasped, pausing and clearing his throat, "how did you know that? Known that it had been another soul? And that it...I mean, him had been here?"

"Sadie had felt him. The moment he had been brought in here, she had felt him. She told me to look out, that I would recognize him. And I did. I felt him. I can't describe it, I just knew it was him."

Julian dropped his head back, sank into his pillow. His voice had grown hoarse during the last minutes, the story having exhausted him visibly. He closed his eyes with a frown.

Sam chewed on his bottom lip. He had heard things from Julian he couldn't find in any report or patient file. Things he wasn't sure he had wanted to hear.

He had been shocked by Dean's confessions, back then, leaning against the Impala. He had felt his brother's pain and regret, had connected the dots for himself and had imagined how it had been down in the pit. But hearing all this was almost too much, even for him.

It was partly shock over the things Dean was obviously capable of. But it was also shock over the enormous ferocity towards his brother that had led him to do things like that. What Dean had gone through those thirty years, Sam could only surmise. But knowing that Dean would never ever harm an innocent person or even animal and now learning how others had suffered from what he'd done in hell...

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, searching for something to say.

"How come that you believe me?" Julian beat him to it, looking at him with glassy tired eyes, "Do you have a connection? Is there someone in hell talking to you?"

If the situation wouldn't be so fucked up, Sam would have laughed out loud at the question.

"Something like that, yes", he answered sadly, feeling his own eyes watering up. He felt the sudden urge to see Dean. Needed to look after him. Talk to him. Tell him that he was there and not leaving him alone with this. Ever again.

As if on cue the sound of someone clearing a not very phlegmy throat sounded from the door. Sam and Julian looked over to where the nurse stood, waving a hand at them.

"Doctor, I think it's enough. Mr. Todd needs to rest now", she admonished Sam, nodding towards the exit.

Sam gritted his teeth. "Julian, I need to go now", he said, raising from the chair, his limbs protesting against the abrupt movement, "I'll get back to you."

"So, you're a doctor after all?" Julian asked, disappointment clearly audible in his tone.

"It's a long story. There's..."

"Doctor Larsson. Now."

Pursing his lip's Sam send a scowl over his shoulder before he composed his features once more, addressing Julian. "Take care of yourself, okay? Thank you for talking to me."

Julian blinked at him, puzzled and obviously confused, but didn't say another word. Sam turned and passed the nurse on his way out, presenting her an icy smile. "Thank you", he muttered with a curt nod, ignoring her raised eyebrow and the nervous twitching of her nose.

Damn. He hated to leave that kid in there just like that. He owned him at least an explanation, or a few more details to his identity. Otherwise, what on earth could he have said? Hi, I'm the brother of the guy that beat you up and I'm curious to hear how you know that he's been to hell.

Walking through the long hallway leading to the other units of the facility a deep sadness came over him. Wow, this was a whole new level of fucked up. That kid, his and his sister's fate…

He didn't know if he would have been able to cope with such a 'gift'. Him in Julian's position, sharing a connection with Dean in hell, having front seat tickets for his brother's torment.

Sam had suffered during those four months without his sibling. He had been scared for Dean, the knowledge of what his brother had to endure unbearable. The fact that he wasn't just dead, but at a place of perdition, violence and barbarism, mentally and physically, almost killing him. He had tried everything to get him back, had searched under every stone. Sure, if he would have had a connection to Dean, would have had the possibility of talking to him…maybe things would have been different.

Maybe Sam would have been able to prevent Dean from turning into the person he had become down there.

But then, he had no right to judge over his sibling. Dean had held on for thirty years. The full extend of his agonies was still beyond Sam's knowledge, but he was sure no one else would have held on that long.

Reaching the door leading to the solitary confinement unit Sam gripped the door handle and paused for a moment. He didn't know what was waiting for him behind these doors. In which condition he would find his brother right now. If Phillip was right, it was possible to find a pathetic, depressive bundle in that cell. A stranger. A person, broken and destroyed, in dire need of care and help.

Sam took a deep breath and clenched his jaw, steeling himself.

* * *

Everything was numb and dull and muffled. The beige-colored cell padding swam in and out of focus, the dark rectangle at the other side of the cell morphing into different shapes right before his eyes.

Dean stared ahead through tired, burning eyes. His body unmoving, slumped into the corner on the floor that had become his favorite spot. Yearning for sleep. Craving for peace. Held captive in a never ending nightmare he couldn't wake up from.

Seemed as if they had given him the good stuff today. Problem was that it only shut down the body. Not the brain. That stupid, little thing just kept on working. While his body felt as if it was floating in a viscous liquid, every move a slow, awkward task.

The rectangle on the wall morphed into another shape. Funny that it never morphed back to what it really was – a door to mock him. An exit, smirking at him, beckoning him to freedom. But that would only work if he'd really wanted out, right?

Which he didn't. He just wanted everything to stop. He was a freak, so why bother with him? Sam had left him, so for whom should he go on? He was a killer, so he deserved it.

The shape had changed it's M.O.. It wasn't just shifting into all kinds of forms anymore, it came closer. Dean blinked, tried to pull his head up from it's position against the wall, failing miserably. He watched the shadow approach him, becoming clearer. A few inches before it almost stepped onto Dean's outstretched legs, it stopped.

And presented a sickening grin.

_There you are. Wakey, wakey, Dean-o. Up for another chat?_

* * *

_To be continued...

* * *

_

_**Author's notes:** What happened to Sadie is actually a real case – a young police officer__ here in Germany__ comitted suicide after she was bullied by her male co-workers. Unbelievable. To say it with Dean's words: "Monsters I get. But people..."  
_


	22. Chapter 22

_Here's the promised second one...and I love this chapter. It was great to write. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing!_

_Next chapter will be up on Sunday. Hopefully._

* * *

**Chapter 22**

* * *

When Sam spotted the orderly in the small glazed office he fought the urge to roll his eyes. Okay, so today was apparently the day every stupid dick this facility had to offer was on duty.

Griffin looked up from his magazine, the expression on his face showing the same enthusiasm, and stood. Sam continued his approach to the second door, not slowing down.

"Hi Griffin", he greeted, "you can stay put, I know the way."

"Hold your horses, doctor", the bulky man replied, stepping out of his glassy box and planted himself beside the office's door with crossed arms, "I'm sorry but no one's allowed to go in there."

Sam stopped abruptly and turned toward Griffin. "Says who?"

"Says doctor Salinger."

"And for what reason?"

Griffin shrugged, "Looks like Dean had a little conniption this morning. Completely freaked out in Salinger's office."

Sam's alarm went off immediately. "What did he do there? What happened? What did Salinger want from him?"

"I brought him up for a session. The doctors Salinger and Rosenberg had..."

"What?" Sam exclaimed, taking two long strides until he stood right in front of Griffin, "Why wasn't I notified?"

The orderly raised his hands in a mock surrender, "Easy, okay? How should I know, I'm just doing my job here, alright? Only thing I can tell you is that I've been instructed to get Rodgers from his cell up into Salinger's office, secure him there and wait outside. That's what I did."

Sam whirled around, a low growl building in his throat. Fantastic. So those fine doctors had grabbed his brother for a little chit-chat, leaving him out of it very deliberately. Because they knew Dean was more vulnerable without Sam shielding him from their queries and attacks. Meaning to downright break his brother up, inspecting how he'd react on certain questions without someone intervening.

And he hadn't been there. Running a desperate hand through his hair realization dawned on Sam. Dean had probably no clue where Sam was. Oh God, how must he have felt? And what did Salinger and Rosenberg trot out about his absence? Did they tell the truth? Did they lie Dean straight in the face?

The Winchester turned to Griffin again, who hadn't moved, just kept staring at him in mild astonishment.

"Wait...what kind of conniption were you talking about? What happened?"

"Well, I don't know the details, but I heard someone scream. Salinger then called me into the office. Dean was on the floor, had pulled the whole chair over with his freak out. Salinger gave him something of the harder stuff to knock him out and told me to get him back into his cell. No admittance for anyone."

Sam just gaped at the other man. Right now, he was so ready to throw punches. At Griffin for his flippant tongue, at Salinger for not involving him, for betraying him, at Rosenberg because Sam was hundred percent sure he was behind all this.

"Listen big guy", he hissed, stepping closer into Griffin's personal space, their noses almost touching due to the orderly's equally impressive height, "I don't care what Salinger orders. You are going to stomp back into your glass cubicle over there, press the big button and unlock that door now, clear?"

Griffin's face darkened. "Sorry buddy, not happening."

The two men stood like this for what felt like ages, glaring at each other, before Sam turned once more and approached the heavy door leading to the cells. He banged against the window pane with his fists, cursing the bulletproof glass.

"DEAN! DEAN, CAN YOU HEAR ME?" he yelled, but deep inside he knew that this was for nothing. The metal was too thick, the window too sound absorbing. There was a complete hallway lying in between this and Dean's cell door. His sibling wouldn't hear him, even if he was conscious and aware, what Sam didn't know and honestly doubted.

With one final howl Sam whirled again, storming towards the exit, passing an amused Griffin.

"Salinger's office, 4th floor", he sang, "but for all I know the complaint book is already full!"

Sam ignored him, opened the door to the hallway with a determined push of his shoulder, stomping towards the elevators.

* * *

"Go away", Dean slurred, pulling his legs up and turning his head so he wouldn't need to look into the abhorrent face.

Mike slumped down in front of him with a satisfied sigh. Dean felt his gaze on him and cringed.

_Wow. That's what I call hospitality. So, where were we?_

"You know, the only reason I wished to be down there again is to have the opportunity to wring your scrawny neck." Dean was sure he was talking, he felt it and he could hear someone. But every word, every syllable ate so much of his strength. The same weight pressing down on his limbs prevented him from using his tongue.

_Ah, come on. Now you're lying._

"Right, wringing your neck's boring. How 'bout I rip you to shreds?"

_That's not what I mean._ Mike leaned closer. _Killing me isn't the only reason._

Dean slowly turned his head and met Mike's gaze with a deep, sluggish frown. "What's your point?"

_You know that you belong down there, tiger. You're like all those creatures and monsters and abominations creeping along through the unholy halls of hell, but then, you're some kind of upgrade, don't you think?_

"That's crap..."

_Think about it. You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, Dean. All the new souls arriving...they meet you, think themselves safe...and then you can strike, lash out like a poisonous snake, do the things you're really good at._

The Winchester blinked owlishly at the figure in front of him.

* * *

Sam didn't bother knocking. Salinger should be glad he was able to keep himself from kicking the cheap thing in. So when he entered the office, three sets of saucer-like eyes looked at him.

Scanning the room, Sam wasn't surprised to find the usual suspects all gathered in the same place. Rosenberg sat in one corner, glaring up at him over the rims of his glasses, a notepad on his lap. Salinger leaped to his feet with wearing an expression of surprise and anger on his haggard face.

The only person Sam hadn't expected sat at the other side of the desk, on the chair Sam called the 'chair of the accused': Phillip, hunched up, shoulders slumped, staring at him in confusion.

"What the..." Salinger started but Sam decided he didn't want to hear it.

"I want to know what's going on here", he spat, shooting daggers at the two doctors, "why's there a session without me and why am I not allowed to see my patient?" Sam felt ridiculous, talking like this. He wanted to shout, he wanted to throw a few things, maybe rip that stupid, pain in the ass pendulum from the long case clock and slap it at those two doctors heads. He didn't want to know why 'he wasn't notified for the session' because he already knew there was some hanky-panky going on. He didn't want to be 'doctor Larsson' anymore, he had enough of the charade, he just wanted to get Dean and drag him out of here.

"Doctor Larsson, how about you take a seat and we talk this out?"

"Doctor Salinger, how about you call your gorilla downstairs in the solitary confinement and tell him to open the doors for me?"

"Mr Rodgers needs some time on his own", Rosenberg spoke up, pulling the glasses from his nose in the most arrogant way Sam had ever seen, dropping the notepad on the desk.

"Oh yeah?" the Winchester returned, regarding the man, "Why's that? What did you do to him that he needs that so desperately?"

Rosenberg snorted, "We didn't 'do' anything, young man, this is a mental facility, people are here to get help. And sometimes this requires to use practices which aren't easy on the patient."

"So that's why you didn't involve me today, because you didn't want to see your practices endangered with me sitting here and put a question mark over every word you say..."

"Maybe."

Sam shook his head in disbelief, darting desperate eyes to Phillip who had remained silent and was watching him with a mixture of compassion and misery.

* * *

"I won't do that again. I should have never ever done what I did in the first place." Dean wanted to sound convincing. Why wasn't it working? Why did he sound like a whiny little bitch?

_Oh, but you did. And you were good, Dean. Let's see..._

Mike slumped down beside him with a satisfied sigh, crossed legged and Dean wanted nothing more then to leap to his feet and run, be as far away from this thing he was forced to listen to every damn moment. The hallucination that stank of hell. The vision that had eaten up everything left of him. Of his sanity.

_It's your choice. You won't get rid of us anymore, that's a fact. We're going to be your personal déjà vu for the rest of your sorry life. Which you are going to live all alone, I might remind you, because Sammy's gone. And you won't get out of here. You don't want to, I know, but how crappy is that? Being a nut job in a nut house, a bunch of very talkative hallucinations on your shoulder, no visitors...oh and I don't think you're going to get out of this cell ever again because, hey, you killed someone!_

Mike nodded at something in front of them. Dean didn't want to look. Didn't want to listen. Didn't want to be anymore. He raised his heavy head nonetheless. And flinched at all the people gathered his cell.

_I know you hate us. Show us how much._

* * *

"Help me understand, doctor Larsson", Salinger began, "how is it that you're so anxious for Dean's health, but at the same time advising Phillip here to stop giving him his meds? I seem to miss the point here."

"I'm sorry", Phillip muttered, running a defeated hand over his face.

"You're kidding, right? Haven't you noticed anything during the last days and weeks? Do you even look at your patients?"

"What do you want to say?"

"Can't you tell the difference, the change in Dean's demeanor from the day he came here until now? He isn't the same person anymore, what do you think is causing this? The food?"

"You're walking on thin ice, doctor", Rosenberg stated and looked as if he was about to say something else when Salinger motioned him to let it go.

"Howsoever", Salinger said, "we can't tolerate something like this. You can't just advise to discontinue medication without our knowledge and permission..."

Sam barked out a humorless laugh, "Oh, wow, so I can't do anything without your knowledge while you're happily destroying my patient without mine? Now that's cute..."

"Not your patient, ours. Remember, we discussed that the first time we got to know each other. Dean's our patient in here, our responsibility."

"Then how about you start to take that responsibility, doctor?"

"I do." The older man took a deep, sad breath. "Doctor Larsson, I'm sorry but I don't see another way. I'm forced to ban you from the house with immediate effect. You are no longer in charge of Dean."

* * *

"No..."

They were sitting, standing, pacing. Every single person was looking at him, accusing him, reminding him how deep he had fallen. Dean looked at them, unwillingly regarding their injuries, every bloody spot his eyes took in throwing him right back to the time and place he had caused all the pain and agony.

Dean shook his head, burying his face in his hands.

How could they be here? How could they all be here? Inside of this room? Why wasn't he safe? Oh God, was he going to be safe ever again?

_How about rejoining the family, huh, Dean? Slicing and carving fun everyday, happy hours included? That's where you're an expert. The best. Alistair's going to be thrilled when he gets you back. He's really really devastated since you're gone, you know. So much potential. Such a perfect student._

Someone was sobbing. It took Dean a few moments to realize that it was him. Tears were streaming down his face. His nose hurt. His mouth hurt. His heart beat on and on like an emotionless battery, keeping his body alive. Keeping this sickening monster he was alive. How could this stupid thing keep him in this world he didn't seem to belong in?

Leave it. Let it go. Mike. Stop. Heart. Stop.

_You can have us up here, driving you insane until you're a drooling, sobbing shadow of your former self. Or you can come back down, where you can do whatever you want with us._

Dean looked up, his breathe hitching. Mike knelt in front of him again, surrounded by the girl he had burned alive. The woman he had cut into ribbons. The guy he had pulled out all his limbs. And all the others he had tortured and destroyed.

_You're not the bad-ass hunter anymore, Dean. You're barely human these days. You're damaged, tainted, wasted. But down here you're a killer. A prince of doom. A specialist. You're time on earth is up. Make a new start in the basement._

He dropped his gaze at the stark white dressings around his right wrist. A constant companion since he came here. Never leaving. As if it wanted to say something. As if it wanted to remind him that there was always a way out.

Now he listened. He was all ears.

* * *

Sam stared at Salinger in utter disbelief and shock. From one second to the other his whole wrath faded into a crumbly, parched blossom.

"You can't do that", he whispered, the consequences of this decision dawning on him in an instant.

"I'm afraid I can and I will. I'm sorry it had to come to that." He looked at Sam long and sad before he took the receiver of his phone, calling some security staff into his office.

"Doctor Salinger", Phillip spoke up, raising from his chair, "allow me to speak, I don't think this is a wise move. I know that patient, if you will pardon my saying so, better then doctor Rosenberg or you. This is a fatal move for Mr Rodgers, I don't know if he's going to bounce back from this without doctor Larsson..."

"Phillip, I know you and Dean are close and I appreciate that, really, but..."

"But that decision is not anywhere near your pay grade, Phillip." Rosenberg stood from his place and walked up to him, patting the nurse's shoulder. He then reached out a polite hand to Sam. "Thank you for the interesting collaboration, doctor Larsson."

Sam was thunderstruck. He felt his insides turn to ice. He stared at Rosenberg's large, old hand, realizing for the first time that this was it. He had forfeited not only his best and probably only chance to get Dean back into freedom, he had also lost his foothold, that one, unstable boot that kept that heavy door from falling shut with a thunderous blast, cutting his only and last connection to Dean being kicked out in a vicious manner.

What was he going to do now? Should he plead? Should he throw a tantrum? Should he just go? Find another way in?

"Please", he tried again, schooling his features to stay as unemotional as possible, "doctor Salinger, doctor Rosenberg, I know I should have talked to you in advance, but for me it was the right thing to do, I couldn't..."

Sam was interrupted by the door opening and three huge orderlies march in. He threw a desperate glance at them over his shoulder before he stepped forward towards Salinger again.

"Doctor, you're making a terrible mistake. Please."

Sam looked at Salinger, beseeched him without words, begged him to revisit his decision. And for a tiny second it seemed as if it worked. A flicker of doubt rushed over the other man's face, a twitch of his lips, an uneasy blink, a swallow.

"Son..."

"That's enough", Rosenberg spoke up, waving at the three men, "would you guide doctor Larsson outside, right to his car, please."

Sam's jaw worked in unison with his trembling chin. He held Salinger's gaze before he was gently but firmly pulled backwards to the door. He whirled around, hissing an angry "Don't you touch me..." at the orderly closest to him and marched out of the office, flanked by the three men.

* * *

Mike was smiling at him. For the first time in hours he kept his piehole shut. Just knelt there, watching him sympathetically, encouraging him without saying one single word.

Unwrapping the dressings had been arduous, using the left hand paired with his clumsiness. Clawing open the neat, almost healed stitches had costed him quite an effort. But then, the pain had helped him to get his mind off all the faces around him, watching him with curiosity and interest. The task had gotten even harder then, all the blood, his whole arm and body shaking, the agony almost kicking his lights out before the task was finished.

Good thing that they hadn't bothered to cut his fingernails. Good thing he had his teeth. Good thing the human skin and flesh and tendons were soft and easy to tear.

Not across the wrist. This won't work. Lengthwise. From the wrist up to the elbow.

* * *

The elevator doors at the end of the hallway blurred and he wiped his eyes angrily. Damnit. Damn, damn, damn. What was he supposed to do now? Just what?

"Sam", a familiar voice with a slight breathless quality sounded beside him, "Sam, I'm sorry. I'm going to talk to Salinger again, maybe I can convince him otherwise."

"Let it go, Phillip", Sam stopped him with a wave of his hand, "you did everything you could, don't jeopardize your job any further."

"I don't know how those two found out about the medication, I didn't tell them and normally they don't..." Phillip shook his head and swore. Once again Sam could only smile a sad smile at the nurse that had become a true friend to Dean and him.

"It's okay, really." The small crowd stopped in front of the elevators and Sam pulled Phillip closer, scowling at the orderlies and motioning at them to step back. "I need a second, with your permission." He then looked at Phillip intently. "When was the last time you saw Dean?"

"I heard about the session and checked on him shortly before. When Griffin brought him back afterwards I only saw how he was brought back into his cell. I wanted to see how he was but Griffin didn't let me through to him."

"How was he? In what condition is he now?"

Phillip didn't answer immediately. And Sam's stomach dropped.

"Phillip?"

"He wasn't well before his meeting with the doctors, due to that...well, cold turkey. A bit depressive, tired. Agitated. I don't think he slept last night."

"And after the session?"

Again small pause before the nurse replied. "Catatonic. They gave him something, he was awake but not really there. They only do that when a patient loses it. And from the way he was bleeding, I think Dean lost it fairly ferociously."

"He was bleeding?"

"Yeah, his nose and bottom lip."

"Those fucking..." Sam gritted his teeth and kept his thoughts from tumbling from his mouth in the presence of the orderlies. "Phillip, does he know that I'm here? How did they explain to him that I wasn't there?"

Phillip shook his head unhappily, "I'm sorry, I don't know."

A slight cough reminded Sam of his unwelcome escort and he felt another wave of anger and desperation building up in him, tears of rage and panic blurring his vision once more.

"Okay, okay. Phil, I know it's a lot to ask for and I know they're going to try to hinder you but maybe you can manage to keep an eye on Dean until I found another way. Would you do that for me? For us?"

A determined nod was Phillip's answer. "Of course..."

Another cough. "Doctor, if you don't mind, it's time to go now."

Sam didn't bother with a reply, didn't even graced the orderly with a simple glance. He raised his hand, squeezed Phillip's shoulder, the cheeky remark his brother would surely blurt out at the gesture sounding in his ears, 'Aw, come on Sammy, could you be more gay?'.

* * *

Dean watched in weary fascination as the dark, warm liquid flew freely from his arm, felt it pool underneath him on the floor, felt it being soaked up by his pants and shirt, cooling rapidly and causing him to shiver. His heart, that stupid, blind organ, was hammering in his chest. Once again, a small war was sparked in his head, the rational part of his brain jumping and screaming and begging him to do something, while the other part that had already shut down just grinned dumbly.

No one would come. The good doctors had made sure of it. Sam was gone. The best decision ever, little brother. And he wouldn't veg out in some nut house, talking to Mike and all the other souls, let them kick his ass over and over again. No way. He was done up here. Time to return. Kick their asses downstairs.

_We're really, really looking forward to see you again, Dean._

The Winchester looked up slowly, met Mike's gaze through the fog and graying edges of his vision.

"Funny", he whispered feebly, "here's me...thinking you're glad I'm gone...not able to do any harm anymore."

_Yeah. That's where you're right. But you know what? _Mike leaned closer once again, reaching out to him, and Dean felt a cold hand caress his cheek. _We learned a lot. And we're just itching for giving something back to you._

* * *

The three walking wardrobes had indeed ushered him right into the Impala and were now watching him drive off. While their bulky frames became smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, Sam fumbled with his cell phone, his eyes darting from the street to the display.

Who could help? Who could go back in there instead of him? Bobby. He was going to call Bobby first. And if the old man couldn't rough up that facility, maybe he knew someone who could. And if nothing else worked, he was going to ask Ruby for help.

Maybe now was the time for some supernatural forces.

Sam threw his cell onto the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel in a vice like grip. There was something nagging at him. A weird feeling, lingering there like an unpleasant aura which he just couldn't put a finger on. Was it concern? Yeah, of course it was concern, from what Phillip had told him Dean was in bad shape, and not only physical. And from the way Sam saw it there was no one looking out for him right now. Griffin? Right. He could imagine the son of a bitch standing at Dean's cell door, watching him through that small window, mocking him.

Sam was truly worried about his brother, not knowing what the doctors had told Dean, had given him. Depressive. Tired. Agitated. No sleep last night. A complete freak out including a bloody nose and mouth? Dean was done. And if Sam didn't know better he'd say his sibling was on the brink. As rational as he was, who knew what kind of devastation all those drugs and no-drugs in combination with the memories had caused. Thank God there was no way in that padded cell for Dean to do anything stupid.

Having finished that thought Sam stomped onto the brakes, his whole body slamming forward, his face almost impacting with the dashboard. Jerking the wheel violently with a barked "Damnit!" Sam made a fierce U-turn, the Impala fishtailing for a moment before the big car headed back into the direction it just had come from.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	23. Chapter 23

_I was mean, right? Leaving you dangling there with such an evil cliffhanger. But as it's already posting time again, I guess it wasn't too hard. _

_Thank you sooo much again for your kind words and praises! Awww. Wow._

* * *

**Chapter 23**

* * *

Sam was out of the Impala before the wheels came to an entire halt. The janitor shouted something at him about the disallowance of parking in front of the facility's entrance, but Sam wouldn't have stopped if a meteorite would have impacted in the front yard.

He was praying, pleading, swearing, to himself, to God, to Dean while he rushed up the countless steps, stormed through the heavy doors, passing the gaping nurse at the reception.

"Doctor Larsson, what are you doing here, you're not..."

He ignored the elevators and almost stumbled down the steps, taking two at a time. When he reached the first door leading to the solitary confinement, he started to yell his brother's name from the top of his lungs.

He didn't care if he was currently making a spectacle of himself and if he'd reach the cell door and Dean was there, smiling at him, slurring something at him about funny colors and silly shapes Sam would gladly let himself being lead out of the building for a second time, would even endure a dressing-down from the doctors and the janitor for storming this building.

But right now his heart told him something else. That odd feeling. The sixth sense he seemed to have when it came to Dean. Right now everything was screeching and screaming at him.

Griffin was already waiting for him when Sam entered the small room.

"Second try, doctor?" he sneered, presenting a dirty grin.

Reluctantly, Sam skidded to a halt. "Griffin, when was the last time you checked on Dean?" he gasped, trying to get his breathing under control.

The bulky man ducked his head, taking a look at the clock in the office. "About half an hour ago."

"Open up", Sam ordered, his tone leaving no room for arguments, nodding at the second door leading to the cells.

Griffin didn't react, just snorted. "Excuse me, who died and made you the boss here?"

For the second time today Sam stepped into Griffin's personal space. "I'm going to say this once", he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl, "open the doors, this one and the one to Dean's cell. Now. Or I swear to God, I'm going to hurt you."

Griffin's smirk faded slowly from his face but he still didn't show the slightest inclination to move.

"I don't like your tone, milksop."

Sam glowered at the last human obstacle that stood between him and Dean. The last polite gesture he had for Griffin was a curt nod.

The right hook that sent the orderly's head and whole upper body whirling around was delivered with such a brute force that Griffin dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes where he stayed, knocked out and bleeding from his nose.

Looking down at the unconscious man, it was Sam's time to snort. "All hat and no cattle", he spat, "dumbass." He then pulled Griffin's key card off his belt and leaped into the small glass cubicle.

"Comeoncomeoncomeon...", he muttered, his panic spiking when he didn't find the door opener. The moment he found it, pushed down onto it like a maniac, he started to shout for his brother again.

"DEAN! I'M HERE! I'M COMING! DEAN!"

Sam didn't know how he had covered the small distance from the office to Dean's cell. Did he run? Bolt? Dash? How long did he take? Had he ever taken a break from yelling his brother's name?

However, the moment Sam reached his goal, his _runningboltingdashing_ being stopped by the cell door, finally able to look through the small window pane, his whole world stopped turning.

"No", Sam gasped, paralyzed with shock, his ability to move, to twitch, to breathe suddenly on hold. "Nononononono..."

While he fumbled with the key card, tried to open the door with a trembling left, he slammed his clenched right hand against the window, screaming Dean's name in panic and despair over and over again.

SlideSlideSlide "FUCK! OPEN THE HELL UP!" SlideSlide. Beep. Click.

Sam lunged into the room. Dropping to his knees in the middle of the cell, sliding the last inches like a baseball player up to his brother who sat in his damn corner, the same fucking corner Sam had seen him the last time, only that then Dean had been awake, talking, unscathed, not surrounded by blood, his legs not in an awkward position, one outstretched, burying the other that was bent at the knee.

At the sight of Dean's right forearm, a jolt of horror tore through Sam, the gory mess of flesh and blood, pulsatile, flowing, forced out in squirts, causing his stomach to churn.

Had Dean done this to himself? Was it possible that someone did this to himself? Oh God, Jesus Christ...

Swallowing, gritting his teeth, Sam pulled his jacket off, hesitating only for a second before he pressed the bundled fabric onto the mauled limb, sobbing apologies for having to do this, for using a dirty jacket, for not having the time to be as careful as he wanted to be.

He felt the alarmingly cool liquid crawl up the fabric of his jeans. With hands so shaky and uncoordinated he almost had no control over, Sam let go of his jacket and grabbed the sides of Dean's face, took in his brother's pallor, the coldness of his skin, his slightly parted lips, the closed eyes.

Not again. Please, not again. How often was he going to witness his brother bleeding out right in front of him?

"Dean. Hey. Dean? Come on, man, come one..." He felt his own eyes water again, his voice choked and high pitched with terror, "Open your eyes. Please. Open your fucking eyes, man..." He straightened, yelled over his shoulder, "HELP! I NEED HELP IN HERE!"

The shaky, uncoordinated hands slid down to Dean's neck, frantic fingers searching for a pulse. Sam skidded closer, turning his head so his right ear downright pressed down onto his brother's nose and mouth, desperately trying to hear a breath, despairingly trying to feel at least the softest waft of air.

"You stupid...how could you...damnit...don't you dare giving up like this...Dean, please..."

The tiny puff tickling his ear, accompanied by the feeble rhythm of what was certainly the last fluid ounces of blood in Dean's body was all Sam needed. With a howl of relief he grabbed the sides of his brother's head again.

"Hey", he encouraged, a ridiculous joyful quality to his tone, "Dean? Don't worry, I'm going to take care of you, I'm here now, bro."

Once again he hollered over his shoulder for help before he moved Dean gently and ever so slowly to the ground so he was flat on the floor, his head in Sam's lap. The younger Winchester then took Dean's right arm and held it upright, careful as not to jostle it any further.

"Hold on, okay", Sam mumbled, feeling very lonely and insecure all of a sudden, "I hope this is working. It looks very professional at least. Doctor Larsson at your command." It was supposed to sound convincing. Playful. But somehow Sam didn't believe his own words right now.

Dean's light blue clothes were soaked with blood. His shirt, his pants, it was a terrible sight. There were still ruby red rivulets flowing freely from underneath Sam's jacket, each little river causing Sam's heart to sink further. He wanted nothing more then to hold Dean, pull him close and rock him, reassure him that he was safe.

"Dean", he choked out, the possibility of losing his brother again too tangible, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I screwed up. I wasn't fast enough. I haven't found a way to save you. Again."

Sam heard the outside doors being opened. Voices. Steps. Someone crying out, probably because of the big, stupid Yeti lying unconscious in front of the office. He was about to turn around once more and scream at them to get their lazy asses in here when a weak whisper caught his full attention.

"S'm'y..."

Bending down as far as physically possible, Sam leaned closer as not to miss any single breath, whisper, grunt, moan, whatever he was granted with, his eyes blurring once more in relief. "Dean? Hey! Hey, open your eyes. It's me."

In the hallway, someone barked his name. Larsson. How he started to hate that name.

Sam watched Dean's eyelids flutter, felt his brother's fight against his waning strength. But apparently his obstinacy wasn't on top of it's game. Dean's eyes stayed closed. A few soft frowns were the limit.

"Y'here."

"Yes, I'm here. Of course I am. Where did you think I was?"

Sam felt and heard the presence of the cavalry, even with his back to the door. Shocked gasps, mumbled 'My Goodness's', someone finally barking for an ambulance and hospital ward staff. He didn't know how many people there were or who exactly stood behind him. He didn't care. He was just glad that right now no one intruded this moment.

"W'ld've...'nderstood..."

"Shhh...let's save the talking for later, okay? Just...try to relax, help's coming."

"D'nt wanna...d'nt..." Dean started to struggle, began to roll his head from side to side – movements that, under normal circumstances, were powerful and difficult for Sam to cut off. But with Dean so weak, barely alive, it was frighteningly easy to hold him down.

"Don't, come on, stay still", Sam soothed, letting go of Dean's wrapped arm with one hand and pushing his agitated sibling down, "what is it? You don't want what?"

"L've...", Dean breathed, relaxing under Sam's touch, "d'nt wanna...live..."

Sam felt as if he'd just been sucker-punched. He wanted to answer, wanted to say anything, but just couldn't find a single word.

He had hoped for an explanation for this. He had hoped that his earlier suspicion had been just that – a suspicion. A false alarm of his ability to conclude and his instincts. Sam had felt that his brother wasn't able to take any more. Knew that he was a ticking time bomb, ready to explode.

He wouldn't have thought that Dean would _im_plode.

With sickening dread Sam realized that his initial apprehension had proved to be true. There was no weapon, no tool, nothing Dean could have used to hurt himself in here. Except that Dean had been hurt before. And why searching for a tool when you already got one?

Dean had done this to himself. Deliberately. No demon, no monster, no orderly, no other patient involved.

"Dean..." Sam choked out, tear-filled eyes darting to the wrapped-up forearm, fine streaks of blood still creeping out from underneath.

He flinched as someone touched his back, but when Phillip appeared next to him, dropping to his knees beside Dean, Sam felt a small weight being lifted from his heart.

"It's okay", the Phillip comforted, sounding very calm and professional, entirely different to the times Sam had met him before, "the ambulance is on it's way and a doctor from the hospital ward will be here any second." He then addressed Dean, who was still and unmoving again, a few soft moans the only signs of life he showed.

"Dean? Dean, can you hear me? It's your old friend Phillip, remember me? What are you doing here, repaint the cell? Don't tell me you didn't like the color, it was the most beautiful beige they had in their catalogue."

A pained smile flitted over Sam's face at Phillip's attempts to keep his brother awake and in good spirits. He watched the nurse check Dean's vitals, listened to his playful, reassuring ramblings he wasn't sure who they were directed to – Dean or him.

It were Phillip's eyes and his voice betraying him. Those glassy orbs, concern and fear mirroring in them. The slight tremor in his soothing words. He was as shaken as Sam was.

"'m c'ld...S'mmy..." A violent shiver ran through Dean, causing Sam to pull him slightly closer into his lap, whispering words of comfort.

Phillip eyed Sam's jacket around Dean's forearm, but didn't touch it. He then looked at Sam. "He didn't", he whispered, "Tell me he didn't."

When Sam answered with a dejected nod, Phillip swore and rubbed his forehead.

Hurried steps announced the approach of more people and it was only then that Sam noticed the murmurs and mutterings that had been their background noise the whole time. He looked over his shoulder, checked the gawkers for any familiar faces he might vent his anger on, Rosenberg or Salinger for example, or maybe Griffin hadn't enough yet and was up for another round.

But there were only some orderlies he had never seen before, some nurses including the one he had passed at the reception. Obviously everyone too afraid to step into the cell, offer their help, too occupied gaping at his brother Sam and Phillip were thank God shielding from their prying eyes.

The small crowd was divided by a group of paramedics, led by a man wearing a white coat. And for the first time Sam noticed the tiniest allergic reaction to people wearing those. He tightened his grip on his brother, warily watching the paramedics kneel down and start to work on Dean who started to struggle again with the foreign presences.

"Nnn..." Dean groaned, trying in vain to shove the helping hands away, "go 'way...l'eav'mme'lone..."

"Sam?" Phillip's voice jerked Sam's attention back to the nurse, "you have to let go now. He's in good hands, trust me. The paramedics know what to do."

Sam trusted Phillip. And he trusted the paramedics. He might trust that doctor, whoever he was, as well. But to let go of Dean, to slide out from underneath his brother's head, being forced to put it onto the cold, hard floor even if Sam's legs really appreciated the change in position and the opportunity to stretch out again, was an almost impossible task.

He didn't even get up from the floor, just slid back so he could lean against one of the padded walls, knowing that this was the safest option. Sam wasn't sure if he'd be able to stay upright at the moment. His gaze was glued to his brother, who had given up pawing at the people working on him, Sam's anxiety rising when Dean's sluggish movements ceased entirely.

"This is doctor Winston", Phillip explained quietly, his voice almost drowning in the bustling and the cacophony of barked orders, "he's actually from St. Mary's, dropping in once, sometimes twice a week to check the patients in here. Don't worry, he's a good guy."

Sam nodded, "So, they're going to get Dean to a hospital?"

Phillip nodded. "Lake Okeechobee isn't equipped with an ICU. And I guess this is where Dean needs to be right now. So yes, they're going to transport him into town."

Again, Sam could only nod. He watched his brother's first care in a state of trance, blocking out the staring people, the ugliness of the room itself, the biting smell of blood and sweat. Phillip's shoulder grazing his kept him grounded when a stretcher was brought in, making him feel less alone while Dean was lifted onto it. He blinked in surprise when doctor Winston snapped at the gaping crowd to move their lazy asses out of the way.

While Sam followed him and the paramedics pushing the stretcher with it's precious cargo, tried to get a glimpse of Dean's face, buried underneath an oxygen mask, another surge of tearfulness washed over him.

He had done everything he could, right? With failing and screwing up the whole time during Dean's stay in this facility, could he be sure that he had at least now done everything right? In time?

The distance from the cell to the courtyard was a blur. But it became instantly clear and sharply focused when the medic's calm and serene bustling switched into a frantic hurry the moment Dean was loaded into the waiting ambulance.

"He's crashing", one of them yelled, "vitals are all over the place!"

When the last few minutes had been like a bungee jump to Sam, this was him being caught by the cord. Only that it wasn't a springy one. It was like a common rope. No bouncing, no soft breaking of a too long, too fast fall.

"Dean?" he breathed and leaped forward, only to be grabbed by a set of arms from behind.

"Sam, don't. Stay back, let them work!"

Sam struggled and bucked against Phillip's surprisingly strong grip, lashed out and threw his head back in an attempt to free himself while he hollered and shouted in desperation and rage.

"Let go of me, you son of a bitch, take your hands away, I need to..."

"Trust them, Sam, have some faith, they can help him! Sam, calm down!"

"Let me go, Phillip, or I swear, I kill you..."

It was like a bad slideshow to Sam. The medics working on Dean in the cramped space of the ambulance, performing CPR, shouting, counting, barking vitals, numbers and terms Sam didn't know what to do with it. Dean, completely still now, hidden by people in white, machines, tubes, things Sam didn't want anywhere near him. One of the medics jumping out of the vehicle, closing the rear doors and then running to the driver's side and vanishing behind the wheel.

It was too much for him to take. He couldn't lose Dean again. There was no way he could be without his brother. When the engine started, the siren started to wail and the ambulance lurched forward, Sam sank to his knees, his rage dissipating, the angry howl tuning into helpless sobs.

"I know it's hard, I know you learned to distrust doctor's stuff thanks to this place and I'm terribly sorry for it." It was only then that Sam realized that Phillip was still there, kneeling right beside him, still holding him. "But now's the time to get that trust back, you hear me? Sam? He'll be okay."

The ambulance rushed out of the facility's courtyard, turned onto the road with squealing tires until it vanished behind the high walls surrounding the building, the blaring of the sirens fading.

Sam stared at the naked stone walls as if he'd be able to look through them, able to follow the vehicle with his eyes. He wanted to believe in Phillip's words. He wanted so hard to believe.

He felt Phillip release him, the death grip the nurse had on Sam's arms easing, but not vanishing completely.

"Come on, I'll get you there. I'll get you to Dean", Phillip encouraged, squeezing his shoulders lightly.

And because this was the only place Sam wanted, needed to be right now, he let himself being pulled up to his feet ungrudgingly.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	24. Chapter 24

_Gosh, I'm excited. Who else?_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 24**

* * *

Two men in one room. For hours and hours. Staring into thin air without actually saying a word, sharing a thought. It might have felt awkward, odd in any other situation. But right now it was everything Sam was asking for.

He sat on a hard, uncomfortably chair, only a few inches away from Dean's bedside, gazing at the sheets covering his brother, inspecting the fibers without seeing them. Phillip was leaning against the windowsill at the other side of the bed, chewing his fingernails, a task he had had started hours ago and probably wasn't going to abandon anytime soon.

Sam was glad for the man's presence. It helped him to keep himself grounded, prevented him from going stir crazy. Without Phillip by his side Sam was sure he might have had lost it already.

The noises had caught up with him after all. Those sounds that always highlighted the Winchester mortality.

The damn heart monitor. Impossible to ignore. Forcing you to follow each _Beep!Beep!_ like a lifeline, causing your heart to skip a beat whenever the monitored one did. The whooshing of the ventilator. Feeding exhausted lungs with precious air when they weren't strong enough to get the job done by themselves anymore.

Leaning forward, Sam knuckled his eyes and let out a tired sigh.

Dean wasn't out of the woods. He had lost a terrifying amount of blood. From what the surgeons had told Sam they had had great difficulties to stop the bleeding altogether because of the shredded veins and tendons.

It was now while he sat with his comatose brother that he became really aware of what Dean had done to himself. Oh God, if Sam had only known how desperate Dean had been. To do something like this.

He looked up, scanning the relaxed, pale features of his sibling. If it weren't for the breathing tube one could think he was wrapped up in a warm, peaceful slumber, no dream or memory haunting him. Sam could only hope that it was like this. He hoped that wherever Dean was right now, it was helping him to rest. To gather his strength again, so he would find his way back. To him. To the world. To himself.

A sharp knock ripped Sam from his musings and from the way he noticed Phillip jerk in surprise the nurse hadn't been prepared for any interruption either. The door opened and a huge man wearing all too familiar clothing entered the room, his gaze darting from Sam to Dean and coming to a halt on Phillip.

"Shift changeover", he rumbled, "everything okay in here?"

Sam fought the urge to throw a snarky remark at the man, just switched his attention back to Dean's still form.

"Yes, we're okay, thank you", Phillip answered politely and Sam heard the door click shut again. He couldn't hold back an angry huff.

"I'm still wondering why they do that", he growled, "they could chain him to the bedpost with their fancy leather straps instead of sending shifts of orderlies over, peering in every two fucking hours to check if everything's in right order."

"Oh, they'd do that", Phillip replied, "it's the hospital policies colliding here. Lake Okeechobee would chain their patients to their beds, but St. Mary's doesn't allow it. So they have to put orderlies in front of the room to make sure Dean won't bail."

"As if he'd go anywhere soon." It was also a growl, but it held a defeated quality to it.

The two men lapsed into silence again, but Sam felt Phillip's gaze linger on him. He looked up at the nurse.

"What?"

There was a peculiar expression in Phillip's eyes, something warm, curious. A soft smile appeared on his face.

"You're not just Dean's shrink, aren't you, Sam?"

Sam held Phillip's gaze, didn't reply immediately. He then averted his eyes, started to fidget with his fingers before he looked at Dean.

"He's my brother", Sam stated softly, affection and concern thickening his voice. He cleared his throat and met the other man's eyes again. "What gave us away?"

There was no surprise, no shock, no disappointment on Phillip's face, only sympathy.

"I met a few psychiatrists in my life, Sam. I saw a lot of ways how patients and their doctors mix." he then shook his head. "I never witnessed so much dedication, such a chemistry."

Sam managed a sad smile. How much dedication had there been when his brother now lay here, fighting for his life, a life he didn't want? How much of use was a chemistry when one had tried to kill himself?

One thing was sure. Sam had screwed up. He had been supposed to have Dean's back. It had been his job to get him out of this mess, to prevent shit from hitting the fan. He had failed. And the punishment held out in prospect was unbearable.

"It didn't work out, though", Sam whispered, his vision blurring once again, "I wasn't much of a help."

"How could you've been help, Sam? Help in terms of getting him out?" Phillip shook his head once more, not in awe this time, but in compassion. "I'm sorry I have to come to the facility's defense. If it were that easy to get out of Lake Okeechobee, what kind of mental institution would it be?"

Sam didn't respond, just clenched his jaw.

"And the mental condition Dean was or is in...well, you said it yourself, and I'm 100 per cent with you on this...the drugs he got added to the mess." The nurse stepped forward and sank onto the other chair at Dean's bedside.

"Look, I don't know what happened to Dean in the past", he went on empathically, "it's none of my business, I'm not even sure if I'd want to know it at all. But there's nothing you could have done. The drugs, the medication...I know they can have this impact, on people with traumas or bad experiences more than others, I was there every damn time and I saw patients take their lives often enough..."

"I could have been faster", Sam choked out, "I could have noticed he change earlier..."

"You noticed the change and you did something. You ordered to discontinue the meds..."

"Too late, Phillip!" the young Winchester yelled, all the desperation and anger at himself bubbling up, "Look at him! For all I know I made it worse by denying him those meds. He's almost gone and even if the doctors here can pull him back, I don't know what to expect when he wakes up. Last time he talked to me he told me he didn't want to be alive anymore. How am I supposed to handle that, Phil?"

Sam noticed tears streaming down his face and with an angry wipe of his sleeve he rubbed them away. He focused on his sibling again, searching for an answer in Dean's slackened features, the older Winchester completely oblivious of the struggle raging in Sam.

Despite Phillip's presence, despite Dean being right here albeit only physically, Sam once again felt utterly alone, the weight of guilt and fear pressing down on him, crushing him. He needed Dean to wake up, to open his eyes, to tell him where to go, tell him which was the right thing to do. But at the same time he was scared shitless of what would greet him when Dean came to. Would it be Dean at all? Or just some empty shell? Would Dean be happy to see him? Or hate him for not letting go?

"I'm sorry", Sam rasped, trying to regain his composure, "it's just...I'm...Phillip, could you give me a minute?" He looked up, feeling like an idiot for yelling at the other man, who had been such a support and friend.

"Of course", the nurse replied calmly, consternation reflecting in his face. He stood, took one long glance at Dean and walked over to the door. "I'm around. Just call me if you need anything."

Sam nodded, a thankful but fragile smile brightening up his face. When Phillip disappeared behind the door, his smile crumpled and he slumped down in despair.

* * *

The blackness that enveloped him loosened it's hold, the warm and blissful oblivion that felt as if it had been there for years retreating. Dean blinked, not sure if his eyes had been open all the time or if he had been asleep. He couldn't see, it was still dark. But he knew he was awake now.

The first thing he felt was confusion, followed by an unnatural heat, creeping into every pore of his skin. He knew the heat. Knew how eroding it could be. He had felt it for forty years.

He was back. Why was he back? What had happened?

Already sweat was crawling into his eyes, causing him to squeeze them shut. When he tried to wipe the moisture away, he noticed the immobility of his hands for the first time. At the realization of the way he was strapped down, with both his arms outstretched and tight down a wave of fear slammed into him.

No.

Dean yanked his head around only to be held back by another restraint, keeping him from turning it into any direction.

God, no. How was this possible?

A choked gasp escaped his mouth. He started to tug at his legs and let out a partly panicky, partly angry howl when they also refused to obey due to something keeping them secured. Dean's pulls and movements became frantic, turned into tearing and yanking, accompanied by desperate cries and raging screams.

He was on the rack again. Why was he on the rack again? What had he done? What had happened?

After long minutes or hours or days of struggling and fighting the restraints Dean gave up, his body wrecked by pants and sobs, his chest rising and falling too fast, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Voices joined his own sounds of distress. Ringing laughter, far away at first, only to slam into him like a gust of wind. Whispering, purring, someone singing.

"Get away from me", Dean rasped, renewing his efforts to get free from the bonds even though he knew they wouldn't budge. He had tried often enough before.

Faces appeared in the darkness, shadowy, like whirling smoke, forming grimaces and expressions. They surrounded him, talking and laughing across each other, the cacophony of mockery and provocation causing his ears to hurt.

"Aw, at least not all at once, you sons of bitches", Dean groaned, squirming under the onslaught.

* * *

"I don't like this, let's pull him under again." Doctor Ollis watched Dean with a concerned expression and shook his head.

Sam was frozen to the spot.

He had sat for five days, had kept vigil over his still brother, day and night, had willed him to stir, to twitch, to give him a fucking sign that he was still there. Sam had called Cas a thousand times, had even visited the hospital chapel in case a better reception might help.

Now, that Dean indeed stirred, twitched, gave Sam that damn sign of life and slapped him with it, the younger brother almost couldn't stand it.

The evening before doctor Ollis had decided to cut back Dean's sedation. When his brother hadn't shown any signs of waking up during the night and this morning Ollis had reassured Sam that Dean would need his time, that everything was under control and normal. However, when morning had become noon Sam had noticed the first traces of helplessness on Ollis' face. And when Dean hadn't so much as frowned in the late afternoon Sam had earned those looks again – those pitiful, sympathetic glances, smiles from the nurses that weren't real smiles at all but distorted grimaces, eyes saying 'I'm truly sorry' and 'Hopefully he'll leave without causing a scene...'

Sam had seen them too often in his life, was sick and tired of them. Which was the reason he hadn't given a rat's ass about them, just had kept staring at Dean's relaxed features, had kept listening to the steadily beeping heart monitor.

It had been him noticing the first movement his brother had made since he had lost consciousness almost one week ago. It hadn't been a frown, no twitch, no flutter of eyelids. It had been a gasp, a soft, uncharacteristically pained gasp that had nothing to do with the breathing tube, and together with the slight but sudden jerk of Dean's head it had shaken Sam to the core.

So much for a restless slumber.

Now the chair Sam had occupied for days stood in the corner of the room, with Sam standing right beside it, forced back by the squadron of nurses with doctor Ollis in the lead who had been summoned by Dean's monitors going crazy.

Ollis motioned at a middle-aged nurse who rushed to Dean's other side and started to fumble with the IV line.

"No, wait", Sam interrupted and took a tentative step forward, "don't."

He had waited so long for Dean to surface, had reached a point close to abandoning hope. Now that his brother indeed started to fight his way back to consciousness, back to him, he wouldn't allow those efforts to be trampled down again. He wouldn't sit there and watch them pump the very shit into his brother that was responsible for his condition in the first place.

"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Larsson?" doctor Ollis asked, looking at Sam with a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

"Is this really necessary?" Sam queried, eyes darting from the doctor to his restless brother, "To sedate him again?"

"In my opinion, yes, it is. He's going to hurt himself. He's just too agitated for someone waking up from a coma."

"Yeah, I get that, but..." Sam let out a desperate sigh, "how about we wait? He's been through a lot, I can't blame him for being agitated." Phillip would have been really helpful right now.

"I understand that, Mr. Larsson..."

"It's Sam", the younger Winchester cut Ollis short, trying hard not to grit his teeth, "just...Sam."

"Well, Sam, I can imagine Dean's been through a lot, concerning what he did to himself, that's why I'm trying to be easy on him. We're going to pull him under again, wait until he settles down and try again without cutting the sedation back too fast."

That approach again. Doctors always have only the best in mind, right?

"Look, let me try, okay? Maybe I can calm him...if I fail we can still use the sedation."

"Sam, I don't think..."

"Please."

Actually Sam didn't want to beg anymore. He was done with doctors and hospitals and people thinking only they're way the the best way to handle Dean. But if he didn't pull himself together now he likely would be kicked out of here, too, and that was something Sam wasn't going to risk. This was his second chance. And he would sure as hell grab it and never let go.

Doctor Ollis held Sam's gaze before he exhaled forcefully and signaled the nurse at the drip to let it go.

"Okay then. You have fifteen minutes. If he doesn't show any signs of waking or his agitation intensifies I'm going to take charge again."

Sam's only answer was a determined nod.

* * *

Memories thudded into him with a force so vicious Dean cried out with every impact, the pain almost as unbearable as the memories themselves.

Skin being torn apart. His, not someone else's. Blood, everywhere, turning the floor into a dark glistening puddle. Not the blood of a stranger. Terrible pain, agonizing grunts and sobs. Not of some poor replaceable fellow. But his.

"What have I done...", he choked out, "what the fuck have I done...how could I've been so damn stupid..." The choked voice turned to a hoarse panting before Dean took a sharp, deep breath and screamed, in rage, in despair, in sorrow. His voice reverberated from invisible walls, the cackling around him grew even louder, the laughing grimaces dancing around him like witches celebrating a Walpurgis Night.

He didn't care if he was crying his heart out right here and now. He had made the biggest mistake ever. Being down here meant he was dead. No one had come for him, no one had found him in time to prevent him from bleeding out. He had himself been lead astray, had fallen for Mike's words. He should have known where this would put him, that it was this place he would wake up again to.

_I'm sorry, Sammy. I hope you're not ashamed of me for going out like this._

When Dean suddenly felt a cold hand on his shoulder he jerked violently, trying to recoil with all his might.

* * *

Sam pulled his hand away with a startled gasp as if he'd just touched a hot stove top. The stifled squeal from one of the nurses at the other side of the room told him that the hospital staff hadn't been prepared for the ferocious jerk of Dean's body either.

He didn't know if it just had been coincidence or if Dean's reaction had been indeed caused by Sam touching his shoulder. He wished for the latter. Because it would mean that he'd be able to reach his brother.

Sam leaned closer, his eyes searching Dean's features. They weren't slack and peaceful anymore. But there was no real expression either.

"Dean", he tried, gently gripping his brother's shoulder once more, "hey, you there? Time to wake up, man."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	25. Chapter 25

_Hey to you sweet people out there! Hope you´re all doing okay? I hope you like this chapter...enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 25**

* * *

"Sorry Dean, been busy."

Dean gaped at Mike's face, the man's dirty grin almost illuminating his features.

"Back off", the Winchester whispered, trying to keep his voice steady, "you got what you want..."

"Ah-ah", Mike replied, holding up a wagging finger, "not so fast. You have to arrive here first, kiddo."

Dean frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

It was then when he heard it. Far away, almost inaudible. Drowned out by the terrible screeching and laughing threatening his head to burst. Mike mirrored Dean's frown and looked around slowly, searching for the source. He let go of Dean's shoulder but the touch didn't vanish. Like a phantom pain it still lingered there.

"Tell them to stop", Dean demanded, slightly irritated by the feeling of someone touching but not touching him, "tell them to shut the fuck up."

The mild confusion written all over Mike's face faded and turned into a crooked smile. "Not my people. This comes from someplace entirely else." He leaned in, far too close for Dean's comfort. "You're not dead yet, you know."

The moment Mike shut his mouth Dean recognized it. And for a single second he chastised himself for not registering it sooner.

"Sam..." he breathed, joy and anguish colliding inside him.

It was like warm oil being poured over him, the feeling of being loved, of being home swaddling him, causing his heart to leap in relief. But the next moment the oil burned his skin, reminding him that it was this he had thrown away, the love, the home. Sam.

"He's calling for you", Mike hissed beside him, "that's what I meant when I said you have to arrive here at first. But don't worry, son. I'll make sure he doesn't reach you. I'm going to help you get settled."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a new rush of hot tears gather in them. At the sound of his little brother's voice, cutting through the clamor around him, a life belt in this roaring sea of doom and perdition, he felt himself being torn apart.

A life belt floating on vicious waves, right in front of his eyes, which he couldn't reach.

"I'm sorry", Dean choked out, "you have to let me go, Sam. I made a terrible mistake. I guess I have to pay for it."

From the corner of his bleary eyes he saw Mike's grin widen.

* * *

"This isn't working", doctor Ollis spoke up, stepping forward next to Sam, "Sam, let's do it my way now, alright?"

Sam clenched his jaw, frustrated by the doctor's impatience. "A few minutes more, doctor, I need more time."

"Have you seen his vitals? His heart rate's almost going through the roof, this is dangerous."

Darting desperate eyes over to the wildly beeping heart monitor, Sam watched the jumping lines. He hadn't even registered the alarming noises the thing made.

He had his evidence. Dean did hear him.

"Okay Dean, listen to me closely", Sam started, ignoring Ollis who crossed his arms and started to tap his foot, "I don't know what brought you to your knees and I'm sorry for it because I should know. Me of all people should know. I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry I didn't notice. Blame those fucking acting skills of yours, but I was sure you didn't need me, I was so damn sure you were holding your own after everything that had happened to you."

* * *

There was a war raging inside Dean. His mind fought against his heart and what was left of his soul. For the first time since he had woken up he wished for the screaming demons around him to increase their volume, to please drown out Sam's voice that still cut through their noises like a sharp, blinding sword.

He wanted so bad to believe. To trust his brother. To wake up and pick up where they had left off before the hounds had taken him and ripped him apart. Damnit, before Sam had been killed and he had made that deal.

But that ship had sailed a long time ago. Dean wasn't the man he used to be and Sam wasn't, either. And now that Dean didn't trust himself anymore, after knowing what he was capable of even without an Alistair behind him, how could he go on knowing that Sam wasn't there to keep him sane? To keep him from doing something stupid? To let instincts take over?

"Look at me, Dean." Mike's voice was calm, understanding, an equally sharp and blinding sword as Sam's, penetrating the riot surrounding them as easily. He grabbed the sides of Dean's face, causing the Winchester to hiss when a jolt of pain tore through him. "Don't listen to him. Just look at me. It's over soon. And then we'll do as promised. Get you off the rack so you can show us how much hate there is."

* * *

Around him, the nurses and doctor Ollis started to bustle.

Sam looked up at Dean's heart monitor, noticing that the frantic beeping was now accompanied by an alarm, indicating that his brother's heart was indeed working overtime right now and something was seriously wrong. Somewhere behind him Ollis started yelling at him to step back and make room for them to work, was jumbling with words that sounded like 'security' and 'homicide', but Sam didn't listen.

This had to work. It just had to.

"Dean", he started again, his clear words turning into composed sobs, "I'm sorry for trying to get my way, for trying to figure out a way to get you on my own, all the while overlooking that you were needing me so bad."

* * *

The tears were streaming down Dean's face freely now, his breath hitching from agony and sadness. Suddenly there was a slight pressure building in his throat, an obstacle forming itself in there from out of nowhere, causing him to wheeze. Mike was still grabbing his head, held it in a vice-like grip. He was still talking but it seemed to fade, to melt together with the noises around them.

Sam's voice was still loud and clear. Like a beacon in a terribly cold night Dean didn't know if he should escape from or belonged to.

* * *

"Ventricular fibrillation", barked an urgent voice opposite him and Sam's attention was once again drawn to the freaked out heart monitor. For an insane second he wondered how many features that thing had for "shit has hit the fan" – the beeping, the alarm, the blinking, it was like a damn firework.

Panic spiked in Sam, the fear that he might be too late, that Dean was too far gone already, that this was one last defiant struggle of his dying mind and body before it would shut off all together numbing him.

He tightened his grip, leaned closer, his forehead touching Dean's temple.

"I want you to know that I'm here", Sam choked out through gritted teeth, "I never left, I'll never leave, no matter what. Wherever you are, this time I'm here. I'm going to pull you out. I won't fail."

For the second time this week he was grabbed from behind, this time by two sets of hands and with much more force then Phillip had used. He was roughly yanked backwards and found himself pinned against the wall by two huge guys in uniform, the impact leaving him momentarily stunned and breathless.

"No...", Sam grunted, starting to struggle against the security guards, all the while watching his sibling's face for any signs of waking, "Dean?"

"Keep him there", doctor Ollis ordered angrily, scowling at Sam.

* * *

Sam's voice faded. The clamor around Dean increased it's volume again, cloaking his beacon like an arising mist.

"Sammy?" Dean blinked frantically, the realization that this had been the last time he had heard his brother almost too much to take.

Mike was still there, his voice gaining strength again, his face hovering above his, cold, clammy hands caressing his burning cheeks. "Let go", he demanded in a friendly tone, "it's okay..."

Dean met Mike's eyes. Lost himself in the black and blue vortex he found in them. Went deaf at the uproar of the demons and other creatures dancing around in his periphery. Felt his lungs constrict at the unbearable pressure.

He took a deep breath, ignored the way the inside of his throat blistered from the hot, acid air. He knew he hadn't much strength left, but it was enough for the two syllables he was about to say.

"Nuh-uh", Dean growled.

And all of a sudden the air turned cold.

* * *

Sam fought tooth and nail against the men keeping him at bay, his rage fueled by the worry and concern for Dean.

"Let me...take your damn paws from me...!" he yelled, struggling to get a glimpse of his brother's face who was shielded by Ollis, the doctor barking orders at the nurses and fumbling with medical equipment. The whole room was a hurricane – frantic beeping, a cacophony of voices, ordering, shouting, people scurrying around.

So when all of a sudden the beeping slowed down and the alarm switched itself off, the orders and shouts subsided and the people calmed down Sam stopped short, not sure if it was over or if they had only reached the hurricane's eye.

When he recognized the breathing tube in one of the nurse's hands, saw the ventilator being pushed aside, he felt his heart skip a beat.

No. Nonono. Please, no.

"Dean?" he breathed, wanting to leap forward but still held immobile by the security. He felt his temper rise, was about to yank himself free, to scream at them, maybe rip their heads off while he was at it, when doctor Ollis turned around to face him and stepped aside.

The sight of his brother caused Sam's fury to fade instantly.

Where a powdery pallor had dominated Dean's appearance for almost a week a fine sheen of sweat was now glistening on his forehead and throat. His lips, deadly still and unmoving for too long, were quivering, smacking now that the tube was gone. His Adam's apple was bopping convulsively while Dean tried to swallow, his throat sore and dry for sure.

But the most relieving sight was his eyes being open, glassy, hooded greens staring straight upwards at the ceiling, blinking slowly as if Dean needed to readjust with his surroundings.

Who knew where he had been?

"Dean?" Sam tried again, a stupid smile plastered on his face. Dean blinked once more before he turned his head ever so slightly, meeting Sam's gaze.

"Thank you", doctor Ollis nodded at the security men and motioned at them to release Sam before he addressed one of the nurses, "could you get some ice chips, please?"

Yanking his arms from the hulk's grips Sam threw them an evil eye before he stepped forward tentatively, hovering above his brother, trying to make himself a bit smaller and less menacing.

"Hey", he breathed, pondering whether a brotherly touch was appropriate or not, deciding that a gentle contact couldn't hurt Dean's ego, "you took your sweet time, huh? Got me scared shitless for a while, dude."

Sam searched Dean's eyes, wanted to know how his brother was feeling, needed to see a desire to live. He wasn't prepared for the onslaught of raw emotions he was met with. The confusion in his brother's glassy orbs first turned to relief, then to joy before it seemed to freeze into bitterness and despair.

Dean moved his lips, a small croak escaping them.

"Shhh", Sam stopped him, shaking his head, knowing full well what his brother was trying to say, "it's okay, I'm here. Take it easy, okay?" The hell would Sam tolerate that Dean wasted what little energy he seemed to have on uttering his name. Even if Sam would give anything right now to hear Dean say something.

Someone cleared his throat and it was only then that Sam remembered where they were and that there were other people around. He whipped his head around and met doctor Ollis' gaze.

"Sorry to interrupt", the doctor spoke up softly, "but we need to examine Dean, see if everything's okay so far. You can wait outside, I'm sure it won't take long."

At the thought of leaving the room Sam bristled. He didn't want to leave Dean alone. He didn't want to leave him with a white coat and a bunch of nursing staff. Not after what had happened. Not after having promised to stay and never letting go.

Biting his bottom lip, Sam looked down at Dean. His brother kept watching him with hooded eyes, the 'ring around the rosies' of emotions quietened down into something similar to fatigue and weariness. At least it seemed as if he had accepted that speaking was not the best idea given his condition.

Sam was still reluctant, torn between walking out of the room and break his promise, or staying at Dean's side and risk another house ban. It was Dean who made the decision for him. The feeble nod and the slight, almost non-existent wave of his hand laying loosely by his side was enough for Sam to know that it was alright.

"Okay", Sam whispered to his sibling before he straightened and addressed doctor Ollis, "Okay, I'll get some coffee then. Let me know when you're finished." With one last glance at Dean he left the hospital room.

* * *

Sam turned the empty plastic cup in his hands, staring out of the window into the night and onto the illuminated parking lot several floors beneath. It occurred to him that the Impala was still at Lake Okeechobee, a fact that didn't sit well with him. Although Phillip had returned to the car and had parked her onto the facility's parking site right after he had dropped Sam at the ER the other night, Sam didn't want her anywhere near the institution. Just as he didn't want Dean there.

Problem was that this decision wasn't on him.

As happy and relieved as he was with Dean awake and hopefully well, it was a matter of time and his sibling's condition before the doctors at Lake Okeechobee would reclaim their patient only to have the time of their lives with him, poking and probing and drilling holes into Dean's head once more.

Crumpling up the cup in disgust Sam turned away from the window just in time to see the door of Dean's room open. The nursing staff retreated, followed by doctor Ollis who approached him immediately.

"Is everything okay?" Sam asked urgently, searching the doctor's serene face.

"As far as I'm concerned he's on his way", Ollis replied, "Dean's suffering from the aftermath of the coma and the blood loss. Talking, moving, he needs to kinda relearn all that but that shouldn't be a problem."

Sam nodded, almost hearing the massive weight rumbling off his chest. "I'd like to go back in, if that's okay."

"He's asleep, but of course you can stay with him. Just don't demand too much during the next days. He's very weak and needs some time to get his strength back."

Sam swallowed at Ollis' words. He had forgotten that this was far from over. That Dean being conscious didn't mean that he was alive an kicking again. That there might be some damage to repair.

The Winchester started to move towards the room when doctor Ollis opened his mouth.

"I guess I have to thank you", he stated, looking down onto the floor, both hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat.

Sam stopped short. "For what?" He looked intently at the older man.

"You know, this is a tough job. I don't want to complain, I love my job, really, I love to be a doctor." He looked up and sighed. "Sometimes we doctors forget to believe in miracles. We tend to forget that just being there for someone sometimes is the best medication."

Sam swallowed before he huffed out a "Tell me about it."

"So, I guess it was a good decision not to stop you back there. I would have missed a miracle."

Doctor Ollis held Sam's gaze for a second longer before he patted his shoulder and turned, walking down the hallway, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	26. Chapter 26

_Heyja! So FFnet is messing with the bits and bytes again, huh? At least it doesn't get boring..._

_So, how about some talking now? After all the action and cliffies I tortured you with? Thanks to all of you who're still reading and leaving review after review, it's fantastic!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 26**

* * *

Waking up had been easier and easier every time he had tried. While the first few times had resembled an energy-sapping slosh through waist-deep mud, it felt like waking up from a long peaceful slumber this time.

No wonder after about one hundred attempts.

His fight for consciousness had been haunted by the fear for what would expect him when he would wake up. But there were no screams. No heat. No rack. He didn't see or hear Mike. Which could only mean one thing.

He was a fugitive once again. He had escaped hell once more.

So with every time he tried to wake up, the horrible fear had died down more and more, turning from a blazing fire to a controllable flame. With every flutter of his eyes, every time Dean realized that he had reached this weird state between sleep and waking, his brain had registered another new detail in his surroundings which had nothing to do with hell altogether.

Before he had seen where he was, Dean had smelled it. The telltale odor of antiseptic. The stale air in a room that either hadn't a window or no one dared to open it. There had been voices, some he had recognized, some he hadn't. His first surge of panic had subsided after Dean had identified Phillip's voice – loud and clear, talking to him, coaxing him to get better soon.

At some point Dean could have sworn he had heard Bobby. However, when he had finally managed to drag his heavy eyelids open, the old man was nowhere in sight. But then Dean didn't know how much time had had passed from Bobby's encouraging words and him waking up.

But there had been one constant that seemed to be always there. Sitting beside him, reading or tapping into the laptop. Leaning against the window (so no one dared to let some fresh air in), looking out, brooding. Slumped on the chair, fast asleep beside him despite the awkward position the plastic piece of crap forced him into.

Whenever he had come to, Sam had been there. Dean had either seen him, some dark, blurry silhouette in bright surroundings, or heard him. And it was one of the main reasons Dean didn't fight the pull of sleep whenever it claimed him. Because he knew Sam was there.

And so the first thing Dean noticed as he slowly clawed his way back to consciousness this time was Sam's voice.

"How about you go back outside and keep that chair warm, huh?"

Okay, little brother was pissed.

"Oh, I do that. But I'm afraid there's nothing you can do to keep me from checking on you or Snow White over there from time to time."

Dean knew that second voice, he just couldn't pinpoint where he had heard it before. Also, it had a rather nasal quality to it.

"Whatever gets you through the night."

Sam sounded tired. Defeated. Dean could feel his brother's exhaustion radiate from him.

"I could sit down with you and tell you about the things I do at night but I don't think you want to know."

True to the motto 'trial & error' Dean opened his eyes, mildly surprised over the fact that he was able to do so without further struggle. A few blinks later they had adjusted themselves to the bright light shining down on him from somewhere above his head.

"That's were you're right, big boy, thanks for the kind offer. Back off now, okay?"

He lay on his right side, head resting on a soft pillow, something tickling his nose. The first thing Dean could make out was a laptop, being balanced on a crossed pair of ridiculously long jeans-clad legs. A wave of warmth washed over him, the image alone making him feel at home immediately.

"No need to grumble."

Darting his blurry gaze over to the second voice, Dean recognized the rather big man standing at the door. And after a few determined blinks he clearly saw the reason for his nasal mode of speaking, a bright white bandage taping the man's nose.

He watched Griffin turn and leave the room, an act that was commented by Sam with an unnerved sigh and a mumbled "Should have broken the moron's jaw..." while he stared at his laptop, typing something into it.

"Wasn't me th's time..." Dean slurred, surprised at how weak and raspy he sounded, but happy over the fact that at least something had managed to escape his sandpaper lips. And from Sam's reaction his brother had heard it, too.

Jerking his head up, the laptop almost sliding from his knee, Sam looked at Dean wide-eyed before his tired features brightened and a huge smile appeared.

"Dean", he breathed, hectically putting the laptop aside onto the nightstand, "you're awake...that's...what did you just say?"

And for the tiniest second Dean could swear he was just watching Sam's first date.

"Griffin. His nose. Wasn't me, right?"

Sam gaped at him for a second before he snorted and pinched the bridge of his nose. A gesture that was evidence for Sam's stress and fatigue. "Yeah, well. Actually it was me. He stood in my way."

Now it was Dean's turn to snort, even if it was faint and resembled more of a sigh. "Must be a nasty habit."

"How are you feeling? Man, you've been out for ages and whenever I thought you'd wake up you were asleep again. I swear, my butt and this chair...they're forming a unified whole by now."

"I can imagine. Is Bobby here?"

"He was. Checked on you a couple of times. Phillip was here, too. I promised to call him when you decide to wake up for real."

Dean nodded. He wrinkled his nose and tried to move a clumsy hand towards it, but was stopped by Sam.

"Don't. It's a nasal cannula. You need it."

Dean let go, Sam as well. The brothers lapsed into silence, an awkward one, both knowing that they were currently trying to ignore the huge pink elephant in the room, tearing something down with every wag of it's tail. Slowly, Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, surprised at how difficult that simple task was. Sam assisted him as good as he could, further increasing the awkwardness that wafted between them.

It was the first time Dean noticed the dressings covering his right forearm, the bandages almost as thick as a cast. When he was settled again, sweating and nauseous, his gaze stayed glue onto the stark white dressings.

"Sam…"

"Are you going to tell me why you did this, Dean?"

Okay. Here they went.

Taking a shaky breath, Dean ran his left over his face, careful as not to jar the cannula, averting Sam's eyes. "Seemed like a good idea to me back there."

"That so? You wanna know what I think of that glorious idea?"

"Sam, calm down…"

"No, I won't calm down." From the corner of his eye Dean saw his brother leap to his feet and march over to the window, raking his hair. Oh yeah, Sam was pissed.

"Can you imagine how I felt? To find you in a puddle of blood, apparently your own? Not moving, not reacting to my voice? I swear, it was like a fucking déjà vu, only that this time I came within a whisker of holding you in my arms while you were kicking the bucket instead of watching from a few feet away like I did a few months ago."

"Well, you weren't supposed to find me."

"Yeah? Sorry to rain on your parade, I found you. Just in time."

Dean whipped his head up. "And who'd have thought that?" he spat, shooting daggers over at Sam who visible flinched at the sudden sharpness, "where have you been all the times before, huh? Where were you? You've made yourself so scarce all the time, I had no trouble believing Salinger and Rosenberg when they told me that you left for good. So no, you weren't supposed to find me, actually the idea behind all this is was that no one finds me."

Sam gaped at him. His answer came so low that Dean almost didn't hear him.

"So that's what they told you?"

"Apparently yes."

"And you believed them?"

This time it was Dean who flinched when Sam looked at him, a mixture of disappointment and anger on his face. "You really thought I'd do something like that? Just let you rot there? Pack my things and leave you alone in that shithole?"

"Yes Sam, I thought that. Because lately there are some things you do that have reached a whole new level of shadiness and I'm not sure if I can trust you anymore."

Sam just kept staring at him, his eyes turning glassy.

"Whatever you did to get me out of that place", Dean continued, fighting to keep his own voice steady, "nothing worked. Hell, at some point I thought you didn't want to get me out. And then you just dropped off the face of earth, you never reappeared…"

"They didn't let me, Dean", Sam interrupted his brother, composed but visibly shaken, "they banished me from the house after they found out that it was me who stopped your medication, I had no chance to get to you, neither had Phillip."

Dean swallowed, processing the words. "That was you? The medication?"

"Yes, Dean. I did that. And I'm sorry if it looked as if I didn't care about you. It was me who stalled all the sessions, or why did you think they didn't bother you with those? I did what I could, I know it wasn't much, but I tried. I tried so hard. I'm sorry if it wasn't enough."

Dean looked down and started to fidget with the oximeter on his index finger. Suddenly he felt ashamed for his reaction. What else didn't he know about his brother's efforts to make it easier for him?

"Stop fumbling with that", Sam admonished softly, his anger seeming to fade as well.

Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes but left the little device that was attached to him alone. He started to straighten the creases of his blanket instead. "The meds, huh?", he asked quietly.

"Yeah. I didn't know anything about those drugs you were getting, but I figured they might be heavy stuff, messing with your state of mind. I think they might have triggered…I assumed they could do a lot of damage. I don't know, call it a hunch." Sam paused and Dean finally looked up at him, relieved to find an understanding expression on his little brother's face.

"What happened, Dean? What did you see? And don't tell me you don't want to talk about it. I think I have a right to know after that stunt you've pulled."

Dean's mouth twitched although he had no intentions to smile or laugh. He knew Sam was right. Maybe he should have talked to him sooner. Maybe he could have avoided some of the mess.

"You remember that day I had that blackout? In the hallway, when I thought I had seen something?"

Sam nodded. "You denied it."

"Well, I saw something. And it was very real. Or actually not. At least it had been real to me. Hell's haunting me, Sam. And I didn't know where to escape. I still don't know."

And Dean started talking. He told Sam about the visions, about Mike appearing over and over. About the accident the night Phillip and him had finished off the ghost, his escape, the reason he hadn't noticed the car. Sam listened closely. He interrupted Dean not once. His face mirroring Dean's emotions, his expression growing pained with every tremor jarring his older brother's voice.

"It got worse. And worse", Dean choked out, struggling to keep his composure, "I really thought I'd lost it. Whatever Mike said, it felt right. And when I killed that kid I knew I was exactly what he accused me to be."

It was the first time Sam cut in. "Wait. What?"

"The kid. The one I beat to pulp because I thought it was a demon. He wasn't, you know. No demon. Just an ordinary young man."

"He isn't dead, Dean."

The older Winchester frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Julian's fine. Well, according to circumstances. He's pretty bruised and battered but he's far from dead."

This was like a punch to the guts. Dean stared at his sibling as if he had grown a second head. "Don't give me that crap", he whispered, thunderstruck. He wanted to believe Sam's words. But could it be possible that the doctors had lied to him about that, too?

Sam shook his head. "It's the truth. I spoke to him", he replied bitterly.

Closing his eyes, Dean clenched his jaw. "Those sons of bitches", he hissed through gritted teeth, the sudden urge to throw something almost overwhelming. So they had lied to him. They had told him that Sam had left. They had told him he had killed someone. They had manipulated him in ways, it was downright disgusting.

When he opened his eyes again, Sam had taken a seat beside him again. He looked as pissed as Dean felt.

"It's their method of operating", Sam growled, "they break the patients first. Then they can put them back together. It's the reason I decided to discontinue the meds. You were okay...after you came back, I mean. Experiences from hell or not, you might not been fine but you were doing okay. But when you landed in there, you changed. And to lose it like this…I figured it could have only been the meds. Maybe going Cold Turkey wasn't the sharpest thing to do, but I just wanted that shit out of your body."

Dean nodded feebly. It was the only explanation for his weird visions and hallucinations. It had started right after his second night in the nuthouse, after Griffin hat tried to punch a hole into the wall with his head and he had gotten something for the injury. And with every new incident another new drug was added and round and round it went...

"How are you feeling now?" Sam asked, "Mike somewhere in sight?"

The older Winchester shook his head. "No. Nothing weird so far. It's funny, I mean, I get that stuff here as well, right? How come my brain doesn't play tricks on me now?"

"Other meds, I guess", Sam shrugged, "less mind stirring. Anyway, if the guy or someone else from your past makes an appearance again, you tell me, okay?"

"'kay", Dean replied, his mind wandering off. How was it possible that a simple hallucination, though born from real experience, could work havoc in such ways? Could drive him insane, push him so far to the edge that he had taken the final step willingly. He had been desperate. He remembered all those feelings clearly. The thoughts, the reasons that explained the 'why'. Even tasted his blood, felt the resistance tendons and muscle had offered against his teeth.

A surge of nausea rushed over him and Dean squeezed his eyes shut. God.

"Dean? You okay? You need something?" He felt Sam grip his upper arm, tried to concentrate on the touch, relished the close proximity.

"'m okay", Dean grated out, taking a deep breath. "What now, Sammy? I get it that they won't let me go now, huh? I don't think Griffin's here because he brought some flowers?"

Sam didn't answer right away and Dean felt his heart sink. "There are orderlies posted outside since you've been admitted", Sam replied quietly, "but I'm sure it'll take a few days before they transport you back into the facility. I'll figure something out."

Another thing Dean wanted to believe. "Okay", he whispered, noticing that he was feeling tired and unwell after the draining conversation. At Sam's sudden grin he frowned. "What?"

"They have very elegant laundry carts in here."

It took Dean a few blinks to get the gist. His face lit up, mirroring Sam's shit eating grin. "Shut up."

Despite his efforts to hide his discomfort, Sam seemed to notice nonetheless. His little brother's smile faded, his expression turning concerned.

"You should get some rest", Sam recommended, getting up and fumbling with the device to adjust the head section of Dean's bed.

"Yes mom", Dean replied, listening to the whirr when the section lowered, "maybe you should do the same. You don't look so hot."

"I want to see you after spending days on a plastic chair. I'm really looking forward to spend a night in a motel bed right now."

Dean almost didn't get the last part of Sam's sentence. With his new position flat on the back it was hard to stay awake much longer, this longest time of wide-awakeness including all the talking having drained him.

When Sam pulled the blanket up to make sure his older sibling was tucked in properly, Dean gathered the last bits of strength he had left.

"Sammy?" he rasped, trying to catch Sam's gaze.

"Yeah?"

"'m sorry."

Sam frowned. "For what?"

"Sorry I didn't trust you."

His kid brother's questioning look turned into a pained grimace. He looked as if he was about to reply something but if he did, Dean didn't catch it anymore. His eyes fell shut and he fell into a blissful slumber.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	27. Chapter 27

_Happy easter everybody!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 27**

* * *

Before Dean found the motivation to open his eyes the next time, he heard a new sound right beside him. The tapping of swift fingers on a keyboard was replaced by the cosy rustling of pages being turned. Squinting against the bright sunlight illuminating the room he found Phillip occupying Sam's chair, completely absorbed in a magazine.

"If that's the 'Playboy' at least read out aloud so I have a bit of fun, too", Dean rasped, blinking the fog away from his vision.

Phillip's face lit up as he lowered the magazine and met Dean's gaze. "Who would've thought that there's actual text in the 'Playboy'", he answered cheerily and held the journal up for Dean to see. "It's 'Better Homes & Gardens'. Call me a Babbit."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "For that haunted house of yours?"

"Well, it isn't anymore, remember?" Phillip put the magazine aside and helped Dean sit up, wearing such a genuine smile on his face, it was downright creepy. "How are you?"

"I'm okay. I mean, up here..." Dean moved his hand up to his temple and made a swirling motion with his index finger, "...everything's in place, I guess. But I'm still a prisoner, and as long as that's the case I won't be really okay at all."

Phillip's smile faded and he nodded bitterly. Dean wished he would say something. Something reassuring. Something like 'Hey, good news, they don't want you back in there, so you're a free man! Get up and go!'.

"I get it that there's no way you could distract the gorillas outside so I can hobble out of here, huh?" Dean joked, albeit swallowing heavily. He knew that was too much to ask. Phillip had risked his job and much much more already once. And Dean wasn't even sure if he was able to get out of this bed in the first place, let alone walk out of here on his own.

"I'm sorry", the nurse replied softly, "they're well trained. They won't fall for something like that."

Dean shrugged, "Nevermind." So he would have to rely on Sam and Sam alone once again. Would have to trust him. Come to think of... "You don't happen to know where..."

"...your brother is?"

Dean shut his mouth with an audible click, causing Phillip to chuckle.

"Yes, Dean, we had some time to talk. I'm in the know."

"Okay. That's…well. Good. You're still here. Not over the hills and far away, I see."

"To be honest…I haven't slept for one night and my wife looks funny at me because I dragged grandmother's old silverware from the basement and keep small portions of salt with me the whole time but…" He shrugged. "At least I know what's out there now, right? What is possible. Might make my job easier."

Dean didn't know what to say. Yes, Phillip had learned the hard way that ghosts were real. And he certainly hadn't fallen from his chair in disbelief when Sam had told him about what the Winchester's did for a living, he might have had figured as much. But the nurse took all that surprisingly well.

"I sent Sam back to the motel", Phillip continued, "he didn't want to leave you at first but I promised him to stay here. And after all those days at your bedside he really needed some rest. And a shower. And a shave."

That made the Winchester smile. Typical for Sam. Mother hen through and through.

"So, I guess you're looking for an explanation, huh?" Dean asked softly, dreading the answer. Honestly, he didn't want to talk about what had happened. He couldn't wrap his head around it himself yet, how was he supposed to explain anything right now?

"I learned what your brother and you are dealing with on a regular daily base", Phillip said, "and it scared the bejesus out of me. To know that there's something…that something has happened to you terrible enough to trigger all that fear and panic and…well, caused you to do what you did…I don't think I want to know, no. And I think it's not for my ears to hear. But of course, if you feel like it, I'm here. I'm listening."

Dean felt his eyes water. Relief over Phillip's acceptance, deep gratitude for his understanding, anguish over those words that were so true. Their lives were screwed, messed up in so many ways, how they were able to move on and on like this sometimes was a miracle to him.

"No, you're right", he whispered, shaking his head, "you don't need to know everything."

Phillip nodded curtly. "Concerning that other problem…" He jerked his head towards the door. "…we'll find a way, alright?"

Dean darted his eyes from the nurse's face to the door. "Well, I'm counting on it."

* * *

A commotion outside his room interrupted Dean's brooding.

He hadn't slept the whole night and when the sun had started to crawl up from the horizon, drenching his room in a cold bright light, he had settled for watching the tree in front of his window, had tried to void his brain from everything. At some point he had tried to get up, had tried to set a foot on the floor and straighten to his full height but had given up the task after his vision had turned black and a wave of nausea had forced him to lay back down again.

The typical noises of the hospital coming to life had erupted from the hallway at some time. The clanking of dishes and trays containing breakfast, the squealing of the nurse's shoes on the floors, their hushed voices. The smell of fresh coffee had started to waft through the air.

Dean watched his closed room door intently, trying to identify the people obviously standing right in front of it, having a heated discussion. He recognized doctor Ollis, his tone surprisingly demanding and sharp. The other sounded like Griffin. Equally sharp.

Just as Dean pondered over yelling at them to just open the freakin' door and step in already, they did, Griffin in the lead. At the sight of his bandaged nose the corner of Dean's mouth twitched in an attempt to grin.

"This is absolutely ridiculous", doctor Ollis spat, marching behind the huge orderly, "Dean's still not well enough to be in your hands. I'd prefer to release him when I think it's wise to do so, and not when your doctor Salinger's bored and needs his patient back to continue messing around with him."

The small smile on Dean's face froze.

Oh no. No way.

"You talked to him on the phone, right, doctor?" Griffin asked, raising his eyebrows, "You heard the man, he wants Dean to be transferred back to Lake Okeechobee ASAP."

"Yes, I talked to him and I already told him what I think about this…"

"Well, it's his patient, which makes him the boss, so I have to ask you politely to prepare Dean for the hospital release."

"Hey!" Dean's angry outcry stopped both men short and they turned towards him for the first time since they had entered the room. Shifting on the bed to appear at least a bit bigger, he glared at Griffin. "How about you stop talking about me as if I were far away and not right beside you, huh?"

Griffin tilted his head to the side. "As if you had a say in this matter."

"I'm sorry, I haven't noticed waking up on a cattle market."

"Gentleman", doctor Ollis stepped forward, holding his hands up in a soothing manner. He let out a sigh and addressed Dean. "I'm sorry, Dean, I wanted to keep you here for a few days longer. You're not strong enough yet. But unfortunately Mr Griffin here is right. If your condition isn't life threatening anymore, which is the case, doctor Salinger is allowed to move you back to the mental facility whenever he wants."

Dean's mind was reeling. Ollis' words echoed in his head, suffocating every reasonable thought.

"Sam", he whispered, swallowing heavily before he looked up at Ollis again, "I want to talk to Sam...my br...doctor Larsson, where is he?"

"Don't worry, he's outside", Griffin replied smugly, "We grabbed him on his way to you and asked him to sign the forms so you can be discharged."

"DAMA, I might add", Ollis mumbled sourly and crossed his arms in defiance.

"He what?" Dean exclaimed, eyes widening. Why the heck was Sam doing that? Why would his brother support this plan so willingly?

Nu-Uh. He wouldn't go back. No. Never.

Struggling to get out of bed, Dean shook his head frantically. "No. Leave me alone. All of you. I won't come with you."

"Dean", doctor Ollis approached him, trying to hinder the Winchester from getting up, "easy, you have to take it easy, you can't just get up like this, you're going to hurt yourself!"

"Get away from me." Dean didn't think about taking anything easy. They wouldn't get him gift-wrapped. As long as he could move, he would fight them with everything he had in him.

Which wasn't very much, apparently.

His bare feet touched the cold floor and he tried to straighten, bracing himself with his hands on the bed which was now the only barricade between him and the two men. Again, his vision wavered and he sucked in precious air through his mouth to keep his churning stomach in check.

"You're going to tear out the catheter, Dean, calm down", Ollis tried again, his voice calm and dominant, hands up in a placating manner.

A handy hint, Dean realized as he looked down at himself. He could take out the needle from the top of his hand, no problem. But there was no chance he was able to pull the catheter out on his own. Not if he wanted to walk out of here after that.

He was cornered. There was no way out. The gleeful grin on Griffin's face confirmed it, too.

God, he was screwed.

"Dean!"

The older Winchester flinched at his name being called. Jerking his head towards the door, regretting it immediately when the room spun, he met Sam's eyes.

"Sam..."

"Calm down, okay", Sam soothed, striding into the room like a man on a mission, walking past doctor Ollis and Griffin right up to him, "I got it, it's alright."

"How can you say that?" Dean hissed, "They're going to drag me back, Sam, how am I supposed to stay calm?" He winced when his voice pitched higher to an almost shriek.

Grabbing Dean's shoulders Sam ducked his head to keep eye contact. "I tell you, it's okay, let them do whatever it takes, don't fight."

"No", Dean disagreed, not stifling the shrieking tone this time and shaking off Sam's hands vigorously. He stepped back, stopping immediately when an uncomfortable pull a few inches below reminded him of the thing that had spent the last few days with him.

"You know what, sort this out", Griffin spoke up, "I'm going to get a wheelchair. Did you sign the papers?"

Sam didn't turn to face the orderly, his gaze staying glued to his brother. "Done."

Dean was getting desperate. What kind of game was this? If this was a plan, he couldn't figure out where it was leading.

"Sam, no...why are you doing that?" he asked shakily, sounding so small thanks to the confusion, the damn fear and the growing difficulties to stay upright. So his body was selling him out, too. Fuck, there was no relying on anything these days.

When his knees buckled, Sam was there. Had rounded the hospital bed so fast Dean was sure he had learned that trick from Cas, warping space or something. His little brother caught him and steered him back to the bed, helping him to sit down onto the edge of it.

"Sammy..."

"Do you trust me, Dean?"

That caught the other man in surprise. "What? Why..."

"Do. You. Trust. Me?" Sam was looking at him, dead serious. But in between the determination and the hardship mirroring in his eyes, there was much more. There was desperation. There was an entreaty.

_Please. Trust me. Let me fix this._

Dean blinked. Once. Twice. Did he trust Sam? He had told him hours ago that he didn't. Had told Sam that he had a hard time trusting him lately. So what now? Caught in a situation that smelled really rotten, with Griffin on his ass, ready and willing to ship him back into the clutches of Frankenstein and Mister Hyde as soon as possible. With Sam who had just signed the free ticket to the ride back there, obviously voluntarily.

"Sam..."

"I know it's a lot to ask", Sam was almost begging now, "but...please. It's okay."

Dean's eyes darted to the door where Griffin walked in, pushing a wheelchair. Then to doctor Ollis who looked like a sullen little boy who had just earned himself a ban on watching TV. When he looked back at Sam, his shoulders slumped.

"Okay", Dean whispered, feeling a lump forming in his throat. What was he supposed to do anyway? He wouldn't stay here, no matter what. Griffin surely had a syringe in his pocket, containing something nice and calming, eager to ram it into Dean's body the moment the Winchester would fight back. Maybe Sam saw clearer. Had indeed a plan Dean just couldn't figure out at the moment.

Yes, he trusted his sibling. With his life. There were a few dents in his trust but he had never stopped trusting him altogether.

Sam squeezed Dean's shoulders, a small smile appearing on his lips. "I'll wait outside for you." Then Dean watched him straighten, his features harden. The game face was back on.

* * *

Under normal circumstances Dean would have thrown expletives around, would have grumbled and scolded at everyone that had the nerve to look at him funny while being pushed around in a freakin' wheelchair.

Right now he wasn't in the mood. He was nervous, he was tense, he felt terrible. He had made a mental note to himself to carry a sign reading 'No catheter, at any time' from now on. The giant, Abominable Snowman was walking behind him, puffing and blowing onto his head, a true miracle given the fact that his nose was wrapped up so tight. Sam was beside him, don't saying a word. He looked relaxed, in charge, but Dean knew it was facade. The tension radiated off of him in waves, vibrations Dean had learned to distinguish over the years and was sure Sam felt coming from his older brother right now as well.

Doctor Ollis hadn't grown tired of telling Griffin and Sam about his thoughts concerning Dean's transfer to Lake Okeechobee. Griffin had replied with a mixture of ignorance and anger, while Sam had apologized and promised to look after 'patient Rodgers'. Dean had remained silent, had fought the urge to struggle out of the chair and run away, or maybe just head-butt Griffin's bandaged nose to see if he might feel better afterwards.

The trio crossed the hospital lobby and headed towards the exit. Through the giant double doors Dean recognized Phillip standing outside, leaning against an ambulance parked in front of the building.

"An ambulance?" he rasped towards Griffin, "What, a normal car wouldn't have done the trick? I mean, I'm healthy enough to get out of here but too sick to drive in a normal freakin' car?"

"Regulations", came the curt answer from behind him, "stop bitching."

Dean rolled his eyes, muttering a 'You got to be kidding me' before he ran a shaky hand over his face. When the double doors opened he had to squint against the bright sunlight. A beautiful day. Well, not for him, that much was sure.

The ambulance's back doors were already open and Griffin stopped the wheelchair right before Phillip's feet.

"Hop right in, princess!" the orderly cheered and took a mock bow.

Dean shot daggers at the man. Oh, if he'd be only in the mood right now, he would rip the guy to shreds.

"That wasn't necessary, Griffin, you can cut it out", Phillip admonished and held a hand out to the older Winchester – a hand Dean ignored deliberately. Not only did it suck that Phillip fought his fights for him, even if it were only the verbal ones, but treating him like an invalid was by far more he could take right now.

"I got it, thank you", Dean growled, getting out of the chair and setting his sights on the van's interior. The fact that it was Sam who caught him once again when his legs gave way a second time today was enough to let tears of frustration well in his eyes.

"Come on, take it easy. Just lay down, okay", Sam said softly, steering him right towards the gurney waiting for him in the ambulance. When Dean finally lay on the soft mattress, he closed his eyes, trying to block out everything.

He didn't want to hear Sam's voice anymore, telling him that it was okay, wrapping him into reassurances and soothing words. He didn't want Phillip's hands on him, groping and patting. He was done having Griffin around, smelling the guy's aura of cheap after shave and sweat. Dean wanted to get up an run away. But he couldn't. He wanted to lash out, no matter who he might hit, it would be the right person, he was sure of it. But he couldn't. It would lead him to nowhere. Besides, he felt his wrists being strapped down once again, probably those ugly leather belts. Whatever. He had to trust Sam, right? Everything would be okay.

My ass.

Dean concentrated on the sounds surrounding him. Sam didn't make any, he knew because his brother was sitting to his left. To his right was a soft rustling, obviously Phillip's jacket which had a rather plasticky quality. Locating Griffin was easy as always, everything the guy did was loud and massive. When he climbed into the back of the ambulance the whole vehicle dipped slightly backwards, the rear axle creaking angrily.

Simultaneously with the closing of the van's back doors, which startled Dean and almost caused him to jump up from his gurney, Phillip knocked against the wall separating the rear from the cab, obviously the sign for the driver to get going.

Now would be a good time to put your secret plan into action, little brother.

While the vehicle began to move, Dean racked his brain trying to think of something Sam might be up to. And did Phillip know about that magnificent plan? Phil had told him that he and Sam had had time to talk. Little brother had let Phillip in on their family business, which meant the nurse was still on their side, right? Or was Phillip the same bastard in Sam's books like Salinger, Rosenberg and Griffin? Griffin. They would need to get him out of the way first.

Unless he was on their side as well.

Nah. Not really.

So what would he do? If he needed an escape plan, what would he come up with? Knock Griffin out. Knock the driver out. Take the ambulance and haul ass. Crap, where the heck was his car? He could only hope Sam had her at the motel or somewhere safe, because if that was their way out, they'd need to change cars fast.

And Phillip? Knock him out, too, to simulate a proper getaway. To avoid people getting suspicious about the nurse. Yeah, that's what he would do. But the way it looked, or better, it sounded, Sam had no intentions to knock anyone out right now. He hadn't moved, hadn't said a word since their departure.

Dean felt the ambulance slow down, recognized a change of the road surface. Smooth tarmac turned to gravel. When he heard Griffin mumble an irritated 'What the heck...' Dean blinked his eyes open and looked over to the orderly, who roamed the cramped space they all were stuck in like a nervous tiger.

A scrutinizing look at Phillip and Sam told Dean that the two either had no clue as well or were damn good actors. When Griffin rushed towards him, bent-forward due to the low ceiling and wearing the expression of a pissed off bull, Dean unconsciously drew back, relieved when the gorilla didn't regard him and pounded against the cab wall instead.

"Hey, what's up? Why are we stopping?"

"Something's wrong with the brakes", came the muffled answer from the other side if the thin wall.

And holy fucking crap, did Dean knew that voice.

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *

___A/N: I'm sure this chapter's cliffie isn't really one ;-)_  



	28. Chapter 28

_My beloved readers, it ain't Sunday already, you haven't missed anything, don't worry. I decided to celebrate Supernatural's renewal for a 7th season by posting another chapter. Just pretend it's a glass of sparkling wine or something. _

_Cheers!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 28**

* * *

It was the tiny, almost invisible shift on Dean's pale features that told Sam his big brother had recognized the driver. It was an almost comical sight and pretty hard for Sam to suppress a smile. When Dean turned his head slightly, meeting his gaze, raising his eyebrows in an 'I don't believe it' gesture, Sam nodded curtly and just winked at him.

The vehicle came to a complete stop, and Griffin scattered a few curses around while he stomped backwards to the rear doors, pushing them open with way too much force and storming outside. The three men inside were able to follow his exact path while he rounded the ambulance by listening to his expletives and insults creeping easily through the vehicle's thin walls.

Griffin's rant was abruptly stopped by a thud and a surprised grunt. A second thud later everything was quiet.

Sam darted a glance over to Phillip who looked ridiculously calm for a situation like this, but then he had been on a salt and burn with Dean, right? One could say the guy was definitely conscience-proofed after an event like that.

"Damn, I hope this works..." Phillip whispered, his gaze glued to the open doors.

Dean looked as if he was about to say something but uncertain to do so. Sam felt bad for leaving his brother in the dark about this plan, but there hadn't been a convenient time to bring him into the loop. And maybe it had been the best. No acting for Dean. Just real fear and terror. But to be honest, Sam didn't want to see the look of betrayal directed at him on Dean's face ever again.

When a familiar face appeared at the opened back of the ambulance, Sam's tension faded at one go.

"You boys ready to change trains?" Bobby asked with his typical gruff tone and it was the first time Sam noticed the hilarious clothing the old man wore – dressed completely in white, no hat on an eerily well-groomed head – it was definitely a rare sight.

"Definitely", Sam answered, starting to lose Dean's restraints.

"You guys are going to be the death of me, you know that", Dean gasped, looking as if he was still trying to comprehend what was happening, "Bobby? How did you...Sam? This is..."

"Yep. Sorry that it took so long." A genuine smile formed itself on Bobby's face. "Good to see you, boy. I'm glad we have you back."

Pulling the straps off Dean's wrists, careful as not to jostle his bandaged right, Sam glanced up at his older brother. Dean's eyes were glassy, but it had nothing to do with him feeling sick or tired. There was pure relief and gladness in those green eyes, the realization that it was finally over, that this was his way out of the mess which had almost costed him his sanity and his life overwhelming.

With his hands free again, Dean raised them to his face and pressed their heels into his eyes. "Geez", he muttered, "a little hint next time, Sam."

"Sorry", Sam replied, patting Dean's thigh, "there just wasn't enough time."

"Speaking of", Bobby interrupted, "I don't know how long that baby elephant here's going to sleep, so I'd suggest you hurry up."

Something Bobby didn't need to say twice. Grabbing Dean's arms, Sam and Phillip helped him up and the trio climbed out of the vehicle. Sam put Dean's arm over his shoulders when he noticed his brother's unsteadiness, satisfied but concerned when Dean didn't raise a protest.

Oh yeah, there would be plenty of sleep and rest for big brother over the next days.

Walking round the ambulance they discovered Griffin lying unconscious on the ground.

"Wow", Phillip said, "how did you do that? You have iron fists?"

"Nah." Bobby held up something that looked like a metal rod and waved it at him, "Got an iron crowbar." The nurse raised both eyebrows and answered with an appreciative nod.

Sam looked down at the orderly, and for the tiniest second thought about kicking against the man's bandaged nose. He sure as hell hadn't suffered as much as Dean had from the guy, but the simple thought of Griffin having a carte blanche, having done God knows what to his brother while he had been a prisoner at Lake Okeechobee's, made him just plain sick.

"I know what you're thinking, Sammy", Dean rasped, pulling Sam out of his hateful brooding, "let it go. Not worth ruining your clean shoes."

"Okay", Phillip stepped up to them, his eyes darting from Griffin to the brothers and on to the deserted street, "I parked your car over there in the woods. See, there's a wooded trail up ahead to the right. It's a two minute walk and you're going to find it. I placed the keys upon the left front tire."

"Our car?" Dean frowned, "My car? Sam, you let him drive my car?"

Sam couldn't help but roll his eyes. Was it possible? Leave it to Dean to bitch about someone else driving his precious car. "Yeah, suck it up. Come on, let's go..." He gently pulled his older brother into the direction of the trail, feeling awkwardly exposed standing at the side of a street where anyone passing the ambulance could see them.

"Wait", Dean stopped after a few reluctant steps and looked back at Phillip, "what about Phil? I mean, we can't just leave him here like this. They're going to get suspicious if we don't at least..."

"Knock him out?" Bobby finished or for him, and Dean nodded carefully. "I got it covered, Dean."

"Yeah", Phillip chimed in nervously, "Bobby here's going to...well, he promised to be gentle. Just a shiner, nothing else, right, Bobby?"

"Sure."

"Okay." Dean shifted and Sam noticed he was trying to keep himself upright without his support. The younger Winchester let go of him and watched carefully as Dean straightened, ready to catch him if his legs would fail to carry him.

"No offense, Phil. I mean...what I said about my car. You driving it and all that."

"None taken", Phillip replied, smiling, "Sam warned me to be careful with it...her, I mean."

"Yeah...you know...there are only a handful of people allowed to drive her. But I'd trust you with her anytime."

Phillip's smile got even wider. "Well, that's actually nice to hear. So, in case I like to surprise my wife and have a 60s weekend with her, you think I could borrow the Impala then?"

The sudden change of Dean's expression was priceless. "You can over-do it, you know?" he stated flatly. And this time Sam couldn't suppress his grin. He threw an amused glance over to Bobby who was obviously thinking the same, his beard twitching slightly.

"Just kidding", Phillip laughed, waving at them in an attempt to shoo them away, "now get lost, you guys."

Sam stepped forward and got a hold of Dean's arm again, draping it gently back over his shoulders.

"I'm sorry I wasn't much of a help for you, Dean", Phillip added, his cheery mood suddenly replaced by solemnity, "and I'm sorry you had to gain all those experiences. In the facility as well as wherever you've been before. I hope you can make peace with your past some time. I hope...no, I know you will. And with Sam by your side...I'm sure he can be what I haven't been able to be for you."

Sam stopped and looked back at the nurse, touched by the words and their meaning. And from the way he felt Dean's breathing hitch, his brother was deeply stirred as well.

The younger Winchester didn't know what exactly had happened at the facility. In how many ways Phillip had done the job that in fact should have been his. Had been there for Dean. Had listened. Even that Sam doubted that Dean had been talkative much, those two may have developed quite a bond. But emo talk? Probably not.

"Don't be sorry, Phil", Dean whispered, "I wouldn't have lasted that long without you in there. I thank you for that. You're good at what you're doing. But as you know now, there are some things you can't explain and some people you can't help or safe. Remember then that it's not your fault, okay?"

He couldn't see Dean's eyes and didn't want to check them right now. But from the way his brother's voice choked up and Phillip's eyes went all tear-eyed, Sam knew that this was their moment. He knew that Dean was right. They weren't here if Phillip wouldn't have helped them out. With a bit more luck and a few hellish visions less they would have been far away already, thanks to the first escape after the salt and burn on the cemetery.

Phillip was a special person. One of the few people the Winchester's could count as friends. And maybe some day Dean would even give his consent to lend the Impala out for a 60s joyride.

In the distance the wail of sirens rang out. Far away, barely audible, but everybody knew what it meant.

"Guess they found the original driver", Bobby stated, jerking his head towards the woods, "Go!"

An order Sam obeyed without batting an eyelash. After one last grateful look at Phillip, he started to move towards the trail, dragging Dean with him. His brother was surprisingly light on his feet despite his fragile appearance, which made their progress fast and smooth. Turning right into the trail, they rushed along, deeper into the woods, dodging some sagging twigs and branches.

It wasn't far, but at the same time the Impala came into view Dean started to trip, and Sam noticed that he was carrying more of his brother's weight now.

"Dean?"

"Don' ask...jus' move..."

Gritting his teeth, eyes on the car, Sam stepped it up a notch, afraid of hurting his brother, but not having the luxury to care about it right now. If they'd get caught now, it would be over.

Dean tripped again, this time not able to catch himself. When he fell to the ground with an exhausted grunt, Sam landed right beside him, the momentum too strong and too sudden to avert his own fall. He scrambled back to his feet as fast as possible, gripping Dean's shoulders and pulling him up.

"Sammy..."

"Oh no, don't you dare give up", Sam panted, disgusted at himself for being so bossy and mean, "come on, you can do this..." He darted desperate eyes from Dean to the Impala, pondered whether it was better to run and get the car and just drive it to his sibling instead of bringing his sibling to the car. They were so damn close. Maybe he could just carry Dean, ignore the gripes and curses he would definitely hear and earn himself an evil stare afterwards. He could live with that, though. As long as they got out.

Hauling Dean up to his feet again was an almost impossible task, given his brother's weak condition. Right before Sam was about to throw Dean over his shoulder, it was Bobby who came to their help once again. Appearing to Dean's right, he gripped the older Winchester's arm and put it around him.

"You call me old man again, kid", the older hunter mumbled and started to jog.

They reached the Impala and Sam lunged at the front tire, snatching the keys Phillip had put there earlier. Together, Bobby and him placed an absolutly spent Dean onto the back seat while the blaring of the sirens had come alarmingly close.

"You can drive straight ahead", Bobby panted, slumping down onto the passenger's seat while Sam took the wheel and the Impala roared to life, "the trail leads to another road at the other side of the woods."

"I just hope the trail's broad enough", Sam said, equally out of breath, "no way I'm going to steer the car through this thick forest..."

"What...'bout...Phil?" came a breathless rasp from behind, music to Sam's ears because it told him that his brother was at least conscious.

"Taken care of, as I've promised. The guy has not even passed out. I was really gentle."

"Good...good...thanks Bobby...for everything..."

"No need to thank me", Bobby shrugged, lowering his gaze, "like I said, I wish we could have gotten you out sooner."

"Hmmm..."

"Dean? Hey, come one, stay awake." Steering the Impala along the gravelly trail as fast as he dared, Sam's worry spiked when he watched in the interior mirror as his brother's eyelids slid shut. "Dean?"

"Let him rest, Sam", Bobby spoke up, fumbling something out of his pant pocket, "He's beat. Been through a lot. A little nap won't do any harm. Besides..." He put his beloved baseball cap onto his head. "...you're here, aren't you. And as Phil said, there's no one who could watch out better for him as you, right?"

Sam blinked, the trail with it's surrounding trees ahead of him blurring. He would try. He had done a piss-poor job so far, but he would try harder. Look out for his big brother for a change.

Together and with some time they would work this out.

* * *

The longer the distance between Okeechobee and them the better Sam felt, the tension that had held him in some kind of corset the whole time slowly fading. They hadn't seen a cop for hours, no one was following them. He imagined Phillip and Griffin sitting at the police station or maybe back in the hospital where their injuries would be taken care of, making their statements.

Phillip would tell about a white getaway car, 'a Toyota or something like that', and that doctor Larsson had mentioned something about going to New York. It wasn't much, a red herring which would buy them some time, but it was enough. It was a 1,700 mile drive to Sioux Falls, about one day before they would arrive at Bobby's house, where they would hole up for the next days or weeks, waiting for the dust to settle and Dean to get better.

Sam turned around, checking on his sibling sprawled out on the back seat. They had begun their escape 4 hours ago and Dean hadn't woken up once, had not even stirred, and Sam had almost pulled over a few times to check if he was breathing. Bobby had just waved him off every time, had told him to relax.

Easier said than done. Bobby hadn't been the one keeping Dean in his lap, feeling his blood seep into his clothes, feeling, watching, hearing him die.

But then the older hunter had been quite shocked when Sam had brought the news to him after Dean had been taken to the hospital. He had gotten quiet at first, so quiet Sam had had to check his phone, had to check if the connection was still there. Then Bobby had started to rant. Calmly at first. Angry and royally pissed, but still calm. At some point he had turned the volume up. Had called them names, first Dean, then him. Morons. Stupid asses. Something about getting into the car and drive over to kick Dean's butt into next week himself. The old man had had a real temper tantrum before he had gotten quiet again and Sam had noticed his strangled voice. Bobby had been terrified. Had been truly shocked, and the younger hunter wasn't even sure if it had been Dean's condition that had moved the man so much, or what Dean had done to himself.

Looking over to Bobby, peacefully snoring with his head against the window, Sam remembered the older man's appearance when he had found him at Dean's bedside for the first time. Sam had gotten himself a coffee and had walked back into Dean's room. And Bobby had sat there. Had kneaded his cap in calloused hands. Had stared at Dean's slack features. And had talked to him. Too hushed and low for Sam to understand, but the way the older man's voice had sounded, all choked up and sad...Sam had retreated, had sneaked out of the room again as silently as he could, had left that moment to Bobby. And Dean. He didn't know if Dean had heard anything Bobby had said, didn't know if he had been aware of their surrogate father, had been aware of anyone or anything around him while he had been under.

Bobby's snoring hitched and he jerked slightly, his eyes flying open. It took him a moment to sort his thoughts, to recognize his surroundings and the reason why he was on the Impala's passenger's seat.

"Hey", Sam greeted him, smiling at Bobby's confusion, "good morning."

"How long was I out?" the other man rasped, turning around to check on Dean.

"Not long, one hour maybe."

"What about Matilda over here? Has he been awake?"

"Nope. But I need a break, how about we stop at the next diner or something, get some coffee and something to eat. I bet a nice selection of pies will boost him awake."

Bobby nodded and adjusted his cap. "Sounds good in my ears. Besides, I can't wait to put on my own clothes again. This bright white junk here makes me want to put on sunglasses the whole time." He let out a sigh and Sam felt his eyes on him.

"What is it?" the Winchester asked irritated.

"You're worried."

"No kidding", Sam huffed out, unconsciously kneading the wheel.

"Why? Dean is here, he's right behind you. He's not the larger than life brother we all know and want right now, but that's to be expected. He's sleeping like a log which, and that's my guess, is perhaps down to the fact that he hears his baby rumble and purr and you and me talking...he's home, Sam. This is probably the first real good sleep he's getting since all this has started. So why are you worried? What's bugging you?"

Sam's gaze was glued to the street, but he knew Bobby was looking right through him.

"I don't know if we can reconnect, just like that. I think...I know Dean has lost a whole part of his faith in me. Which is my fault, I know that. I don't know if I can earn his trust again." He paused and looked over his shoulder, making sure Dean was still out, and took a deep breath. "And I don't know how I can help him. I want to, god, I'd do anything to make him better...I'd take all those memories from hell, all the pain, the physical and mental ones away from him, would take it on my shoulders, carry the weight for him. But that's not possible. And I don't know what to do."

Sam stopped talking, felt the emotions envelope him. It had taken him some time to realize that it were these doubts sitting heavily on his stomach the whole time. After the incident at the mental hospital it had been the fear for Dean's life which had threatened to drive him insane. When Dean had gotten better, the tension and uncertainty of the upcoming escape had almost crushed him. But with Dean being almost okay, their escape successful, he should have felt better, right?

"Maybe there's no major thing for you to do, Sam, ever thought about that?" Bobby asked calmly, still looking at him. "What did you do after Dean's return?"

Sam frowned, darting an uncertain glance over to the older man. "What do you mean?"

"What did you do, with him freshly out of hell? Gave him a daily foam bath, cooked him dinner? Played the guitar and sang happy songs?"

"No, nothing like that, I...I did nothing..."

"See? And he got better, right? Actually, he hadn't been bad or moody or has been struggling with PTSD in the first place. He came back and was him. Pure Dean. He didn't need anything from anyone. That's him, he copes with things like that on his own. He always did that, he always will. The only stuff he might need are those little things everyone of us needs from time to time. Some bottle of Jack or Jim. A nice hunt with a nice high body count on the baddie side. A nice long drive with this car."

Bobby paused, before he added, "And he needs you. Your presence. Your patience. Your sympathetic ear in case he feels like talking about it. And do you wanna know something funny? It's everything that makes your relationship working. You and your brother...that's the basis that keeps you two going. You don't crush each other. But you're there for each other. Without actually saying a word."

Sam felt a single tear crawl down the side of his face. Of course this was their recipe. For years. Ever since Sam could remember it was the Winchester way to handle feelings. It hadn't been his way, and Dean always had a good time teasing him about it, calling him Dr. Phil or rolling his eyes whenever Sam had asked him if he was okay or if Dean wanted to talk about something.

But over the years Sam had adjusted. Had learned to leave his dad alone when he had noticed the man's melancholy. Had tried not to hover when Dean had obviously needed help but wouldn't ask for it. Sam had hated it. Had damned his father for almost raising them to emotional cripples.

Thing was that this time it might not have been their dad's fault. There had been many moments lately when Sam had the nagging feeling that Dean would have been indeed willing to share his memories and experiences, talk about stuff. He already had, right? Twice. But then, had Sam reacted the right way every time? Or hadn't it been him shutting his brother off, pushing him away, with the wrong feedback, the wrong actions?

Dean knew about his nightly sneak outs. It was one of the many things giving him the right to struggle with his trust towards Sam. And after this whole 'I get you out' thing that had went everything else but smooth up to now he hadn't earned Dean's trust at all.

But they needed to overcome this. And if it were for only a few weeks. Sam had to regain Dean's trust and faith in him. Because right now this might be their way out of the mess. Right now this was the help he could offer and pray that it'd be enough.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	29. Chapter 29

_Wow._

_This is it._

_The final chapter._

_Geez._

_I'm going to save the speech until you've read this one, so...enjoy the wrap-up!_

* * *

**Chapter 29**

* * *

The rag in his hands had been light blue when he had snatched it from Bobby's big box of rags containing all kinds of that stuff in different sizes and colors earlier. Now, after working on the Impala's engine for almost an hour, the rag was completely black, daubed with oil and grease. So were his hands. It would take him several minutes and gallons of water and liquid soap to clean them. And probably an equal amount of time to get his blackened fingernails back to their natural shade.

Dean smiled. The first genuine smile he could muster for quite a long time. Standing outside in Bobby's salvage yard, surrounded by the most beautiful car wrecks he could think of, looking at the Impala's engine almost lovingly he was finally able to push his thoughts and feelings into the background a bit.

The foundations of his walls were ready to build upon. Stone by stone.

He took a deep breath, welcomed the smell of gasoline, oil and metal mixing with the cool fresh morning air. The last few days had been hard. Or rather the nights. Not only for him, but for Sam and Bobby as well. It hadn't been Dean's absent strength and his frustration over it that had poisoned the atmosphere. Not the feeling of nausea and the headaches that were bothering him the whole time.

It had turned out that the long and peaceful sleep Dean had had in the Impala during their journey from Florida to South Dakota had been the last long and peaceful one. Probably because of the homelike noises his baby made when the engine was running. Probably because of the vibrations, or the familiar scent of leather and oil wafting through her interior.

Sleeping here had been impossible. Not that Dean wasn't tired. Or had trouble sleeping in a bed that was actually exactly that, a bed, not a cot. A bed in a guestroom, a room Dean and his brother had slept in since they'd been little kids, and not a cot in a small cold cell, the only exit a heavy door that could only be opened with a cheap little magnetic card.

Slide. Beep. Fucking click.

It was guilt depriving him from the much needed sleep. Guilt over the things he had done. Mike's words sounding in his head, _Even if I'm not real here and now, I was real down there, Dean...I'M STILL DOWN THERE, YOU SON OF A BITCH! _They were all still down there. Still suffering from what he had done.

And what about the people upstairs? What would happen to Julian? How was he? Would he be okay? Or had Dean managed to destroy another person's life? Had the police believed in Phillip's statement? Was he still working at the facility or had they tipped to the scam and Phil was in jail?

So many questions. Guilt pressing down on him, crushing him. And never ending fear.

It was fear keeping him awake. Fear of reliving what he had experienced during the last weeks. The fear of seeing Mike's smug smile again, turning into the grimaces of the very souls Dean had tortured and doomed.

This fear was justified. He had jerked awake in the middle of the night so often he had stopped counting. Had jackknifed in his bed, sweating, his clothes clinging to his skin. Had screamed every time, while waking up and certainly in his sleep. Once or twice he had woken up with tears streaming down his face. It hadn't been visions, hadn't been the hallucinations that had haunted him back at the mental hospital which caused him to panic now. It were only dreams. But, God, they were bad. They were as bad as his drug-induced hallucinations had been.

It was always the same scene. Repeating itself, sometimes only once or twice per night. Sometimes, and this was the vast majority, he was screaming himself awake for four or five times, almost every hour until he would scramble out of bed, rush into the bathroom and throw everything up he had managed to eat the evening before. Which wasn't much. Which worried Sam and Bobby, who had already stopped cooking altogether and tried to get everything he knew Dean loved, only to watch him at least swallow a few meager bites of his cheeseburger or taco or whatever the old man had obtained.

The last days Dean had spent sunrise either sitting in the Impala or on Bobby's porch, watching it dawn, a bottle of something strong in a tight grip.

Not alone, though.

Sam had always been there with him. Sitting beside him. Watching it dawn.

When he had done this the first time, Dean had sent him away. Well, had tried to. But Sammy had been adamant, had told him to cut the big boy crap. And had snatched the bottle from Dean's hand to take a pretty impressive swig from it.

It had been awkward at first. Sitting there. Saying nothing. Shoulder against shoulder and just holding each others peace. But now, after almost a week, every morning starting like this, Dean had to admit it was something he didn't want to miss. Sam's presence alone was his bastion of calm.

He surely would have gone truly insane in the meantime if it weren't for Sam.

Dean knew it was something he couldn't and shouldn't take for granted, though. Sam being there when he ripped his bleary eyes open. His little brother gripping his shoulders and talking to him until he was fully aware again after another dream-induced panic attack. Sammy sitting beside his bed until he'd fall asleep again, ready to catch him when the next waking would come.

Dean very well remembered the times he had woken up in the middle of the night. Before this whole fucked up ordeal. When his dreams had been bearable and the task of waking up had been easier, calmer. The moment of realization when he had turned his head to check on Sam, worried he might have had woken up his brother only to find Sam's bed empty. The lies Sam had gotten entangled to when he returned a few hours later.

He knew it was a matter of time before Sam would do it again. Continue this stealing away at night thing. Telling him lies. They would need to talk about it some day. But maybe not now. Maybe not tomorrow. Because right now Dean was grateful for Sam's concern and care.

The crunch of gravel ripped Dean from his thoughts and he glanced past the Impala's opened hood, a slight wave of relief washing over him at seeing Sam walking up to him.

That kid seemed to have an antenna, always close when he was starting to crash.

"Hey", Sam greeted, waving two bottles of beer at Dean, "thought you might drink something mild from time to time."

"Sounds like an honorable idea", Dean replied, closing the hood and accepting the beer gratefully.

"Something wrong with her?" Sam asked, nodding towards the car.

Dean shook his head. "Nah. Just cleaning her up a bit." He sipped at his beer, leaning back against his car. "She's ready for take off."

"So you want to leave?"

"Yeah. I think we've pestered Bobby long enough now. And I don't want him to spend any more money on junk food for me."

"He doesn't mind doing this, you know."

"Whatever." Dean took another sip and looked at Sam. "Why do I have the feeling you're not keen on hitting the road again?"

Sam sighed and leaned against the car beside Dean. "I don't know...I just think...maybe you need more time, that's all."

"I had enough time, Sam, I'm itchy. Let's get back to routine, find us a little job, something nice and easy for God's sake so I can proof that I'm capable but please, let's get going."

"You're tired, Dean..."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious, I know that, but that's just it. I need to get back on the horse, otherwise I won't get better at all." He looked up at his little brother, tried not to look as desperate as he felt. "Please, Sam. I need to get going. I can handle this...can handle me...I just..." He stopped. Who was he trying to convince here? Sam had been with him the last nights, he knew in which shape Dean was. What was he supposed to do if Sam said 'No, we stay'. Go alone? Probably not. He hated to admit it, but right now he was depending on Sam. He was still sane because of Sam. As stupid and ridiculous as it sounded.

"Okay."

Dean felt his facial features drop. "Okay?"

Sam took another deep breath. "Look, I want you to rest. I want you to lay down and sleep, I want you..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I want you to be okay. But, apparently you won't feel okay when we stay and you won't feel okay when you sleep, so, if packing our stuff together and leave is what you want and need...fine."

Watching his brother intently Dean noticed Sam's fatigue. He was trying to help, trying to coax Dean to rest, to take it slow. But he looked as if he was going to collapse every moment himself. And Dean was sorry. So sorry. Sam needed sleep, too. And Sam needed a functioning big brother by his side. There was an Apocalypse to prevent. An unbelievable amount of demons and other fuglies to stop. And he was going bananas. What a crappy timing.

So yeah, they needed their lives back. Their routine. Hunting. Shabby motels. It would work this way. It always had.

"Well...okay", Dean said, emptying his bottle. There was the tiniest jolt of joy in his chest. Yet, his pleasant anticipation was dulled by the never stagnant roundabout that were his thoughts lately.

"Do you think Phillip is alright?" he asked, picking at the bottle label and watching it peel of.

"I don't know", Sam answered softly, "maybe when the furor has died down in a few weeks or so we could…I don't know, ask Bobby to call the facility and pretend to be his uncle or whatever, ask for him. Not sure. Something like that."

Dean nodded. Sounded like a plan. He took a deep breath, dreading the next question. "How about that kid?"

Sam's head jerked up abruptly. "Who do you mean?"

"Who do I mean?" Dean scoffed, "That kid…Julian. The one I turned to apple sauce with my bare hands, that kid."

"I don't know, Dean…I'm sure he's better."

Dean nodded sadly. He wished Sam was right. But then, his sibling knew as much as him. And of course he wouldn't say anything else than 'He'll be fine'.

"There's still something I can't wrap my head around." Dean looked up and met Sam's gaze. "How did Julian know what he knew? If he wasn't a demon. How could he know about…well…my hell?"

He searched Sam's face for answers or reassurances. He wasn't prepared for the uncertainty and nervousness he was met with.

"I wish I'd have an answer for that", Sam replied, "maybe he was possessed and the demon escaped before you got to him? And maybe Julian has inherited the demon's memories?" He pushed himself off the car. "Hey, did you eat for a change? How about we drive into town, see if there's some place we could get a pizza?"

Dean watched his brother. Watched him walk away a few steps. His hands buried deeply into his jacket pockets. His eyes never locked to his longer then a half second. Dean frowned at the suddenly high pitch in Sam's voice.

He knew those signs. Had learned to read them over the years. Had mastered them over the last few months since his return from the pit.

"Sam?" he growled, leaning forward, "What are you not telling me?"

Sam flinched. "What? What do you mean, not telling you? What am I supposed to keep from you?"

"You tell me, Sammy. And don't start with that 'I'm not lying' speech, because I know you do." Dean felt the anger well up in him. "What is it, huh? Is Julian dead? Did you tell me he's alive and kicking because you wanted to go easy on me? Protect me?"

"Dean…"

"I'm done with that, you know? I'm fed up with everybody telling me lies, no matter if it's to protect me or to manipulate me…now spill."

Sam looked at him with huge sad eyes and a clenched jaw, muscles jumping. "Fine", he said, throwing his hands up in a gesture of frustration, "you're right. I wanted to protect you. Because I'm not sure if you're going to handle this very well."

"Well, how about you let me be the judge of that?"

"Well, yeah, gladly, but I'm the one who has to sweep up the broken fragments, Dean."

Dean shut his mouth with an audible click. So it was something bad. And given Sam's expression his little brother was truly unhappy about what he was going to tell right now. He wasn't angry, which would have been his right after Dean's verbal attack. No, he was calm. Sad, almost.

"Julian is some kind of psychic", he began reluctantly, staring to the ground, toeing a small stone, "it started after his sister killed herself. He...they found some kind of connection to each other, were able to talk and share their feelings…"

"Suicide…", Dean muttered, his voice shaky, "you go to hell for that."

Sam looked up at him and nodded tentatively, "Yes."

"She was there, right? So, that's why Julian knew what I did...she was there and...saw me and told him about it..." A wave of nausea slammed into Dean and the empty beer bottle slid from his hands, suddenly weighing several tons. "Oh my God..." he whispered while he stared at Sam, starting to shake his head in denial, "she didn't just see, right? Oh no...please tell me she wasn't one of...please, no..."

When Sam averted his eyes, swallowing heavily, Dean ran two trembling hands through his hair, gruesome realization hitting him. Like it had so often before. His trusty companion since he had risen from the pit.

"Everytime I think I've hit rock bottom I realize that it has just been another freakin' ledge", Dean said dejectedly, turning around and searching for something at the horizon. As if he'd find answers and solutions somewhere out there.

"Dean", he heard Sam speak up, "as awful and ridiculous this may sound, but...well...you could see the bright side."

Dean turned slowly, raising his brows, looking at his brother through a veil of unshed tears. "What? Sam...there is no bright side. There's either a dark side or a more darker side."

"No, I mean...at least you didn't imagine all the things Julian said to you, ever thought about that? After you found out he isn't a demon, all the time you asked yourself how he could know...come on, what did you think, Dean? That you've lost your marbles, right? That you were imagining things now. Am I right?"

Dean blinked. Of course he had thought that. No so much after the incident with Julian itself, he had been quite busy back then. But while he had recovered. In the hospital. Here at Bobby's. He had truly thought he had gone insane.

"Dean? Come on. What did you think?"

"That I lost my marbles", Dean whispered and felt his mouth twitch at the bright smile appearing on Sam's face.

"See? Julian's psychic ability...in our world, it's possible, it's an explanation."

"But that's just it", Dean exclaimed, the tiny flicker of a smile vanishing again, "it's possible. It's the real stuff. Which means that kid is in there...without being crazy or legally insane. He's perfectly healthy up here in his melon, Sam."

Sam gaped at him. "And...what? Do you want to go back and get him out? Is that what you wanna say here?"

"No...yes...I just...", Dean shrugged and walked up to the bottle he had dropped earlier. With an angry kick he sent it flying through the yard in a wide arc. "We can't let him rot in there. Remember me, Sam? I was there because of a totally common thing. In our world, as you put it."

That caused Sam to huff. "Who says this is the only thing he suffering from? You don't know him, Dean. He might have gone really crazy because of that. I don't know, that psychic thing might have been the beginning but don't you think that something like this...causes something in a young man? Who says he hadn't gone insane after all? Who says he isn't some serial killer?"

"Sam..."

"No, Dean. I want you to...just leave it be, okay? I know you feel guilty and I know you're feeling responsible for him, and for what you did with his sister. But I won't let you run into a minefield I know you won't return from because of a fucking guilt-trip. So this is how we do it: we're going to wait, okay? We're going to look for a job, hunt something down, celebrate the good old times. And then, in a few months, we're going to find a way to get in touch with Phillip. He might tell us about Julian, okay? We'll cross the bridge when we come to it, Dean. But right now, this bridge is over hundred miles away and we'll need to cover quite the distance until it even comes into view."

Dean held Sam's gaze. His little brother's expression was so heated, determined, it was downright scary. It was love, it was fear, it was an entreaty. Sam was at his wit's end, Dean could see it. And he was right. There was nothing they could do right now. Sam hadn't succeeded in getting him out of that facility. How were they supposed to free that kid? With both their faces on wanted posters in addition to it.

"Dean?"

Again, Dean blinked. He hadn't noticed that Sam was standing right in front of him now, touching his arm.

"Yeah", the older Winchester cleared his throat, "fine. I'll leave it be then. For now. But promise me we look into this later, okay?"

Sam smiled. "Promised."

It was a soft smile. A tentative one. But then, too genuine to be fragile. It was a smile Dean had missed the most amongst other things while he had been held prisoner in that godforsaken establishment. A smile not even Phillip could have offered him.

It was more then a smile. It was a prospect. It was an assurance. It was a peace offering. It was the first step back to normal, at least the Winchester normal. It might be the first step to the relationship they once had, before hell, before angels, before the Apocalypse.

Dean hoped for it.

"So, let's set out then, shall we?" Sam asked, rubbing his hands. "How about I take the wheel, so you can lay down in the back seat? Catch a few hours of sleep?"

"Geez, Sam", Dean pulled his head back, "where do you want to drive? Alaska?"

"Why not. It's nice there."

"And cold."

"You could use a few gulps of fresh air, don't you think?"

"Not funny, Sam."

"Aw, come on. A little funny?"

"Shut up." Dean took a deep breath, feeling his tension waning slowly. "Bitch."

They might get there. Back to the good old days. Just him. Just Sam. And some common fuglies.

"Jerk."

Hopefully.

* * *

**The end.**

* * *

_Build my fear of what's out there_  
_Cannot breathe the open air_  
_Whisper things into my brain_  
_Assuring me that I'm insane_  
_They think our heads are in their hands_  
_But violent use brings violent plans_  
_Keep him tied, it makes him well_  
_He's getting better, can't you tell?_

**_Sanitarium (Welcome Home) – Metallica_**

**_(If this thing would have been a movie, this song would be heard during the closing credits!)_**

* * *

**Author's notes:** There's one last chapter, let's call it the epilogue. If you reached this point and you have the feeling the story's finished for you, you don't have to read it. If you're in for a tiny tidbit, enjoy chapter 30!

I want to thank all you lovely people out there who have waited patiently week after bloddy long week for a new chapter to be posted and for leaving the most wonderful reviews to every single chapter, for encouraging me and showing me why it's worth every minute to work hard on a story. You're AWESOME!

Thank you **LadyKryptonite294** for creating such wonderful artwork for this story. Keep going!

Thank you **Halit** for keeping in touch and for the lovely conversations we had and are going to have!

And a special Thank You for my Beta **MeAzrael**, who had a rough trot while this story came to existence, and still has, but still took the time and strength to read through my chapters to wipe out all the nasty mistakes and gaps in the plot. Honeypie, you're special. Still don't know how I deserve you. Keep fighting!

* * *

**WHAT'S NEXT?**

I'm currently working on four stories**:  
**

_**Operator**_  
This one's almost finished and the next story I'm going to post. It's a smaller one, it's an experiment and I just had to try it. It's a story based solely on phone calls by John and Sam after Dean's gravelly injured on a hunt and lies in hospital, probably dying. The story contains several connections from either John or Sam to several characters we got to know during the show.

_**Water Is My Eye**_  
A huge project I started almost a year ago, but after accidently deleting the first chapter (about 7 pages long...) I was so pissed I decided to put it aside. After watching "My Heart will go on" I'm quite inspired again. It's a story about the boys working undercover on a haunted cruise liner and is going to be a mixture between 'Titanic' (minus the cheesy stuff) and 'Event Horizon'.

**_Untitled I – Desert_**  
A plot that came to me somewhere between showering and towelling myself – Sam and Dean fall into a trap set by other hunters who are after Sam. They take Sam and leave Dean behind in the desert. Oh yeah, that sounds lame. But there's more I'm not going to elaborate further **evil chuckle**

_**Untitled II – Hellhounds**_  
A reunion with Hel and Patrick (characters from my first story 'Where A River Seperates The Land') and an reencounter with the hellhounds for Dean. The boys join a group of hunters to investigate two abandoned towns. They split up but when it's time to regroup, Dean's team doesn't return.

**I'd love to see you all around some time! Take care, all of you!**  
**Barbara**


	30. Chapter 30

_What a curious thing you are. Okay then. ;-)_

_After finishing this story I thought it would be a nice little gimmick to leave some kind of an open end behind. I just had no clue what to write and how, but it just screamed to put an epilogue like this to it._

_This one's courtesy of MeAzrael, because she wrote it. So any review you're going to leave for this awesome chapter will be forwarded straight on to her._

_Honeypie! You did a great job with this one! Thank you!_

* * *

**Chapter 30 – Epilogue**

* * *

"No", he moaned, trying to get free from her steely grip, unable to avert his gaze from the utter darkness and despair in her eyes.

_Oh yes, _she whispered, and there was a hint of sadness in this voice Julian had learned to dread over the past few weeks, _there is no other way. He's hurt us, tortured us, destroyed us, mindlessly, merciless... there is no peace as long as he's breathing._

Her grip got stronger, melting into the pains and bruises of his body. He winced, but he hadn't any power left for resistance.

_You know what you've got to do, little brother. We'll pay this monster back big time – every cut, every blow, every cold-blooded smile, over and over._

She grabbed his hair and yanked it back, pressing her lips onto his mouth.

_Kill him_, whispered her breath, flowing like liquid ice through his every vein.

And he closed his eyes, shivering in restless sleep.


End file.
